


Pioneers

by inveracities



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Auror Training, Casual Violence, Codependence, D/s Vibes, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, UST, Unhealthy Relatonships, au: canon divergent, post—hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 136,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inveracities/pseuds/inveracities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Auror Training/No Order of the Phoenix AU.</p><p>Six months after Lily breaks off their engagement, James is living in Sirius' spare room, acing Auror training, and drinking rather more than he used to.</p><p>Everything is going fine, until Sirius starts keeping secrets from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honour of Sirius' birthday: a self-indulgent epic in which he gets a happy ending (eventually).

  
**1.**

 

“This is disgusting.”

James takes one last bitter swig of beer, and flops an arm over the edge of the sofa to dump his empty bottle with the rest. He stretches out a bit more, digging his toes in under Sirius' ribcage when he refuses to budge. Sirius scowls and shoves at his foot and makes room for him anyway, letting James' legs crowd him up against the back of the sofa.

“You're not man enough to handle it, that's all. I can assure you, we grown ups find it quite delicious.”

Sirius drinks with exaggerated relish, obviously prepared to commit to a lifetime of pretending to like disgusting muggle beer just to wind him up a bit. James wishes he could rise to it, but the spark flickers and dies before he can really feel it.

_Lily doesn't like beer._

He tries to shake the thought, to push back into the moment.

_She likes red wine and firewhisky, just like me._

He stares up at the bright cluster of bottle-caps hovering a foot or so above his head, and crooks a finger to make them spin.

“Have we got any more?”

Sirius gestures lazily, and a bottle hurtles towards James' face. It's an easy catch, even with seven beers inside him, but he can't be bothered to complain. The glass is slick with condensation, and the first mouthful of beer is so cold he can hardly taste it. He and Lily tried ale once – it was called Wizard's something and the picture on the label was hilarious. He remembers the face she made, her pursed mouth and scrunched up nose, her eyes all hot and outraged when he couldn't stop laughing...

“I shouldn't have hexed him,” he says, drinking deeply. “That pompous pink-faced sack of shit, what's his name – Vern – Vernie – Vernard?”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah, him, the fucking human zeppelin. I shouldn't have hexed him. If I'd just punched the bastard - ”

“You'd still be engaged,” Sirius interrupts, sounding pissed off all of a sudden, like James doesn't have enough problems already. “I know. It's the greatest tragedy of our age, and he's a very bad man for making you hex him.”

Anger flares up, bright and sudden and unexpected. He drinks again – somehow it's two thirds empty already. Bottle-caps collide violently and bounce off the walls and ceiling as he glares at Sirius.

“You think this is funny?”  
  
“No, I think it's boring _.”_

“ _Boring?”_

James drops his drink and lunges at him. It's awkward – his own legs are in the way, and then Sirius' knees seem to be everywhere, but he scrambles and shoves and takes advantage of Sirius' surprise to pin him down with an arm across the chest. Sirius struggles underneath him, flushed and seething, and James feels _alive -_

“ _Fu – uuugh...”_

Sirius' elbow drives into his stomach, and he flails, winded. Everything flips and he hits the floorboards with a bruising thud. He lies there for a moment, wheezing, listening to the bottle-caps hitting the floor like hailstones.

“Ow!”

He sits up, snorting when he finds Sirius rubbing sulkily at his forehead. Sirius narrows his eyes at him and tosses the offending bottle-cap in the general direction of his head.

“Serves you right,” James says, catching it before it cracks his glasses. “Honestly, some friend you are.”

“Fuck you. It's not my fault you're fucking boring.”

He sounds so sullen, so damn _petulant_ that James can't help it; he laughs – really laughs, until his eyes are wet, and he's out of breath, and Sirius is laughing too. By the time he gets it under control, his chest hurts and he feels a bit sick, like everything he's had to drink has hit him all at once. He stands up and extends a hand to Sirius, who's just lying there spread out on the floor like a bloody decorative rug.

“Am I really that bad?”

“It's been six months,” says Sirius, standing up without acknowledging James' offered hand. “You say the same thing _every day,_ Prongs.”

“Come on, it's not every day - ” he cuts himself off when he realizes abruptly that Sirius is still properly pissed off.

His own irritation resurges, prickling at his skin. He feels cheated – Sirius has no right to keep being angry now that they've cleared the air and had a laugh about it. That's not how things work between them; once it's done, it's done.

“I'm going out,” says Sirius suddenly.

“What? Where?”

He sounds stupid, and it makes his fists clench. This is ridiculous - Sirius can't just take his unreasonable grudge and run off with it, like a child with stolen sweets.

“What's it to you?”

James' head is pounding, a thick vein pulsing in his right temple. He thinks about shaking Sirius, just grabbing hold and _shaking_ the moody little fuck until his teeth rattle.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Piss off, then. Just remember we start early tomorrow, I'm not waiting around for you to -”

The door slams before he's finished speaking, hard enough he could swear the whole flat shakes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sight of Sirius leaning against the wall of the training centre is both an annoyance and a relief. He's still in his clothes from last night, shivering a bit without his cloak. As he gets closer, James can see that his eyelids are purple and bruised-looking, and his skin is even paler than usual.

“Morning,” Sirius says, glancing up with unconvincing nonchalance.

James looks him up and down, and pushes his glasses up his nose with a sigh.

“You look like you slept in a bin.”

Sirius shrugs, shoulders hunched against the cold.

“You can't go in like that,” James says, aiming his wand at him. “Pembleton will go spare. Hold still, I'll freshen you up a bit.”

Cosmetic charms aren't really his thing, but he's disguised enough hangovers in the last three months that he could probably do this in his sleep. Despite the half-pint of pepper up potion he had for breakfast, he still feels sluggish and slightly dazed, and there's something weirdly absorbing about watching purple fade from around Sirius' eyes, pinkness seeping back into too-pale skin. The tip of his wand brushes Sirius' cheek, and he blinks, surprised by his own clumsiness and unsure how they got so close. Sirius stares at him, eyes narrowed and lips slightly parted, and James has seen that expression often enough to expect the step back, the sudden bark of laughter, the funny way Sirius shakes his head – an over-emphatic 'no' to a question nobody asked.

“Can't control your wand, Prongs?” Sirius arches an eyebrow, almost totally normal again. “Don't worry, I have that effect on a lot of people.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” James takes his cue, letting the tension dissolve. “There's just something about your face, you know, that gives a person certain _urges._ It's a mystery to me that people don't queue around the block for the chance to poke you in the eye.”

“Wanker.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “Think you can resist poking me anywhere else, or shall I do my own clothes?”

“I'll do it,” says James, though he's not really sure why.

_He'd only balls it up,_ he tells himself, and it sounds plausible enough. _It only takes a moment, anyway._

When he's done, Sirius looks about as close to civilized as he ever gets, and the smell of smoke and stale beer has been thoroughly purged. James sniffs him, and grins, pleased with his own handiwork. Sirius smells like trees do after heavy rain, and for a moment James considers getting everyone to have a sniff, so they can all be suitably impressed with his charm-work. Smells are tricky, after all, and Pembleton's always saying that he lacks “finesse”, whatever that's supposed to mean.

“Thanks,” says Sirius quietly, interrupting a rather satisfying fantasy in which Pembleton concedes that James is, in fact, a master of finesse, and the most promising trainee he's ever worked with, besides. “Look, about last night - ”

“Forget about it.”

He punches Sirius' arm, only slightly harder than usual, surprised when Sirius' face tightens like he's trying not to wince. The expression is gone before James is really sure he's seen it, and if he learned anything in seventh year, it's that these things are best left alone, even if that means swimming against the current of his own basic nature for a moment or two. He turns and makes for the entrance, and Sirius nudges his shoulder as he falls into step beside him. He nudges back.

“Keep up today.”

Sirius doesn't so much nudge as barge him, this time, and James lurches sideways a couple of steps. Overtaking him, Sirius looks over his shoulder, all sharp smile and bright, challenging eyes.

“Keep up yourself.”

After a couple of steps, Sirius starts to run, and the decision to follow is no decision at all. It's pure, unfettered impulse that sends James sprinting through the lobby, swerving wildly to avoid a cleaning elf, remnant hangover all but forgotten.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For a while, everything seems fine. In training they work on tracking for the second week running, and Sirius' innate canine advantage keeps him at the top of the class and seems to enshrine him forever in Pembleton's eyes as some kind of master hunter. James doesn't mind – it would piss him off to see Sirius in second place when they both know he's better at it, and besides, he'll reclaim his throne as soon as they move on to stealth. They spend a rainy weekend drinking their way through the last of good old Alphard's extensive collection of unusual spirits, and when he feels Lily's name trying to slip out, he picks safe little fights with Sirius until he forgets what he wanted to say.

September drizzles to an end, and the nights get longer, and everything is fine. After they all take a particularly potent dose of constructive criticism on the subject of team-work, Bones suggests they head to the pub for a bit of group bonding. James finds that he actually quite fancies it – it's been a while, and the other three are alright, really. Sirius is right, he's becoming a fucking hermit, and he'll feel more like himself for a decent night out. It feels good to walk through London in a group, knowing they're the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the shining future of the wizarding world.

The pub is cramped and noisy, full of smoke and other people's elbows, but somehow Meadowes sorts them out with a table right at the back. She gets the first round in, too, and James has seen people take longer to get served in bars that are totally empty.

“She's a freak,” Robbins says fondly, as Meadowes sets their drinks down. “Her whole family can do it – even the eight year old.”

“Pub magic,” James says, eyeing Meadowes with a new admiration. “Nice.”

“What a shame we're not training to be professional drunks,” says Sirius, stealing one of Bones' fags. “You might stand a chance of not coming third for once.”

“Up yours, Black. We won't be on tracking forever, you know.”

Sirius takes a long drag, and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, good point – Robbins here tells me she's pretty good at stealth. You might get to be _fourth_ , some time soon. Won't that be a treat?”

There's an edge to his voice that's not friendly, and James swats him 'round the back of the head.

“Don't mind him,” he says, smiling winningly at Meadowes. “He was raised by wolves, you know. Totally feral.”

Meadowes smiles back, and Bones starts talking about quidditch. Robbins takes issue with his dismissal of the Harpies, and James backs her up, listing star players and notable triumphs until it's time to get another round in. Things are comfortable enough after that, time turning liquid as their voices get louder and their jokes more funny, and by the fifth or sixth drink, James is pretty sure the night would be a brilliant one, if Sirius would just snap out of it. All evening, he smokes too much, drinks too fast, and seems incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head for more than five minutes.

“What the hell is your problem?” James asks, having followed him to the bar after a particularly rude comment about Meadowes' cute boyish hair. “You're acting like a total prick.”

“Nothing,” Sirius snarls at him, refusing to turn his head. “Piss off back to your fucking fan-club, why don't you?”

James is far too drunk to deal with this bullshit, and he says so, turning on his heel and stalking back to the table without a backward glance. He throws himself into conversation with the others, flirting with Meadowes until she threatens to curse his cock off, and laughing at Bones and his terrible puns. By the time he lets himself look back at the bar, Sirius is gone.

He doesn't reappear until the following morning; he's waiting for James outside the centre, just like before, with a split lip and a stranger's cloak wrapped around him. He says a lot of things that aren't quite “sorry”, and James punches his arm and fixes up his face, and they pretend that it's over and done with.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, it happens again.

James knows before they get to the pub that there's going to be trouble; they've just started stealth, and Meadowes' name is above Sirius' on the board. Robbins is above him, too, and Bones, and James, of course, is in his rightful place at the top. He's never seen Sirius perform so badly at anything - even that time he refused to open his textbook in Potions, and just threw things in at random until his cauldron exploded. That, at least, was sort of impressive.

No one even takes the piss, and maybe that's the problem. A few rounds in, Bones is drunk and stupid enough to try and commiserate. James hauls Sirius outside before he can cause any lasting damage, and Sirius kicks him in the shin like an actual fucking _child,_ disapparating before James can smack a bit of sense into him.

The flat is empty when James stumbles home, and it's still empty when he wakes up the next morning, sprawled on top of Sirius' duvet with one shoe on. His head hurts and his mouth tastes like feet, and as he tries to sit up, the memory of Lily's grumpy morning face hits hard enough to knock him flat again. He misses her so much he feels like his chest is caving in; it's like just the thought of her can punch right through his breastbone and pulverise his stupid, squashy heart.

Why did he have to hex that ridiculous muggle? What did she mean by “too fast” and “too much” and how, exactly, is he “overbearing”? No one else has ever called him that, not one person in nineteen years has said any such thing. Even Sirius doesn't think he's overbearing, and Sirius has called him every other damn thing he can think of, the impossible, bad-tempered, abandoning fuck. What the hell is wrong with him, anyway? Where does he even _go?_ James can't think of anywhere that's open after 2am, and it's not like he's some kind of square.

Sirius knows something he doesn't know, and spends hours on end in a world he's not invited into. The thought is an irritant, like grit in his eye, and his brain feels kind of itchy whenever he dwells on the subject. He tries to picture Sirius dancing the night away in some trashy nightclub, sifting through blurred memories of bad music, plastic cups, and bouncing cleavage, in an attempt to set the scene. When he closes his eyes, he can almost see Sirius' upturned face, sweat-slick and euphoric, his eyes all pupil and drug-sheen as slices of light cut across his cheekbones, flashing blue to white to green. The problem is, that's just a snapshot from an actual night out; as an answer to the current mystery, it doesn't really fit. They only went clubbing a handful of times, and Sirius agreed easily enough when James declared the whole business vastly overrated. Something about it makes it impossible, somehow, not to think about the damned war, and the fact that all they're doing about it is fucking _training._ Sirius said as much himself when they talked about it.

This is pointless. It's Saturday, and Sirius has to come home sooner or later. James will just ask him when he gets back. His skin prickles, anticipation heating his blood as he thinks about confronting him, shoving him into a wall the minute he walks through the door and making him explain himself. The thought gives him the burst of adrenaline he needs to drag himself off the bed; he kicks his shoe off impatiently, and heads for the shower, cursing Sirius to hell and back when he stubs his toe on his fucking bastard spanner on his way down the hall. Fantasies of violent revenge keep him occupied as the soap goes to work; his mind lingers on the memory of Sirius' split lower lip, and the tempting thought of giving him another. It's still knocking around in the back of his head when he fists a hand around his cock, there in the background while he pictures the tangle of red-gold hair between Lily's thighs, the shapes her mouth made when he was inside her. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand speeds up, and one mouth becomes another, a kiss becomes a blow, and it's like an elastic band pulled tight inside him snaps back on itself – he's coming, hard, and he's not even _ready,_ what the _fuck._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Darkness arrives before Sirius does, and James paces the living room, pausing now and then to kick some bit of clutter that reminds him of the selfish twat he chooses to live with. It won't do to let his anger get too diluted; there's a nagging, worried feeling waiting on the edge of his consciousness for the chance to stage a coup, and he refuses to give in to it. It's not like Sirius would thank him for worrying, after all. He'd just scowl and give James that look, the one that says _you're going soft, and it disgusts me._ James hates that fucking look. It makes him feel like a lagging clock - like he's slowing down, getting _old._ He's not even twenty, for crying out loud. It's only Sirius who acts like there's something middle-aged about wanting to be married, as if there's time to waste on indecision and boring one night stands. James knew what he wanted and he reached out to grab it, and there was nothing tame, nothing _safe_ about it. He got his heart smashed to bits, for fuck's sake, and what would Sirius know about something like that? Who is he to judge anyone, when he's never even had the balls to admit that he's fancied James since fifth year?

The thought feels a tiny bit traitorous, but he's too wound up to regret it. Fuck Sirius and his mood swings and his stupid little crush. James is damned if he's going to spend the weekend waiting around for him. It's not like he hasn't got plenty of other friends, all of them more even-tempered, stable, and willing to let him mope about Lily without interruption.

He's just stepped into the fireplace when he hears the stairs creak. Sirius barges through the door and heads straight for his room without sparing James so much as a backward glance.

_Oh no you don't._ _No fucking way._

Drawing his wand, he blows the lock off Sirius' door and kicks it open, fuming. Sirius is on the edge of the bed, and his head snaps up, his eyes wide and startled.

“What the fuck is going on?” James demands, pocketing his wand as he crosses the threshold.

Sirius' shoulders slump, and he stares at his feet, gloomy and evasive.

“Not now, James. I'm not in the mood.”

“ _You're_ not – you must be fucking joking! 'Not in the mood', he says. That's rich, Pads, really it is - ”

“I know, alright? I'm a cunt, I know. I'll make it up to you. Just fuck off for a bit, will you? I need to get some sleep.”

James feels hot all over, aggrieved beyond endurance. He fists a hand in the front of Sirius' robes, getting right in his face, and only grips tighter when Sirius tries to bat him off.

“I'm not your fucking house-elf, you mannerless prick. You don't fucking _dismiss_ me.”

Sirius looks up sharply, his eyes dark and his attention locked on James.

“I'm not. You know I don't mean it like that. I just – look, I'm asking, alright?” Sirius sighs, and his hand closes around James' wrist in a way that's almost hesitant.

“Please, James.”

_Damn it._

James has never had it in him to resist the pull of the strange, raw moments when Sirius swallows his pride. It's because they're so rare, most likely, and because he's the only person who sees this - the only one who even knows that sometimes, in private, Sirius says the word please like he's actually begging.

He lets him go, and Sirius' hand slackens its grip on his wrist. The whites of Sirius' eyes are bloodshot, and it makes the bastard look like he's been crying. James still wants to punch him – quite badly, in fact - but it's going to have to wait. He can't hit him when he's like this, it would be like hitting a girl.

“Alright,” he says, putting a bit of distance between them. “We'll talk about it later.”

The way Sirius smiles at him makes him feel about a hundred foot tall.

“Thanks.”

“I'm a reasonable man,” James says, shrugging in a magnanimous sort of way. “I can wait a few hours to punch you in the mouth.”

Sirius laughs, his shoulders shedding the last of their tension.

“That's very decent of you, mate. And also, weirdly specific.”

“I've had a lot of time to think about it.”

“Fair enough.” Sirius yawns like a big cat, and curls up on his side without further ado. “I'm going to fall asleep now.”

James rolls his eyes, and watches him for a moment or two before killing the light. He pauses on his way out to rummage in the top drawer of Sirius' desk, fishing out the absurdly fancy bottle hiding in the back.

“I'm going to Pete's for a bit,” he informs Sirius, glancing over his shoulder. “I'm taking your absinthe with me.”

“Yeah,” says Sirius drowsily, his voice all soft and smudged. “Anything you want, James.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams that he kills the dark lord in single combat, and an adoring, faceless crowd raises him up, higher and higher, until he can reach out and close his fist around the sun. Its golden wings beat against the cage of his hand, and he raises his arm to show off the light to the people below.

“ _You bastard!”_ Lily shouts in his ear. _“My sister was going to marry him!”_

He turns around, but she won't let him see her face properly. The thing in his hand is a human heart, nothing special after all, dripping dirty black blood all over his shoes.

“ _I hate your sister.”_

She pushes him and he stumbles, falling backward onto his throne. He's in the castle, Gryffindor's sword laid heavily across his lap. He curls a hand around its thick, smooth hilt, looking down at Sirius. Grey eyes gaze back, dark as slate and slightly narrowed, before Sirius ducks his head and waits there, kneeling, to accept his pardon. James holds out his hand, and Sirius' lips touch his knuckles, parting softly against his skin.

“ _Please,”_ says Sirius raggedly. _“I'll do anything.”_

The sword is hot in James' hand, scorching the tips of his fingers. Sirius stretches his mouth open wide and James pushes the tip in, the flat of the blade sliding over Sirius' tongue. He knows he won't cut him. He knows Sirius can take it – he knows that he wants to, that he'll take anything James is willing to give him, that for Sirius there is no such thing as _too much._

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up late on Sunday morning, clammy with sweat, his legs snarled up in Sirius' sheets. He doesn't remember getting home last night, let alone climbing into Sirius' bed. His glasses aren't where they should be – skewed across his face and biting into the bridge of his nose, like every other time he drinks that much – and the room looks blurry and foreign without them. He sits up, clutching at his head to try and keep his skull in one piece, cursing absinthe, Peter, and his own past self, in roughly equal measure. He'd only planned to have a couple of drinks, for fuck's sake – how was he supposed to know that Pete, of all people, would be having a party?

His glasses are folded up on the bedside table, and he's just got them on when Sirius pokes his head around the door.

“Morning,” Sirius says, with the obnoxious good cheer of a man who neglected his duties to the god of booze last night. “Fucking hell, you should see the state of your hair.”

“Ugh,” says James, burying his face in his hands.

“Good night, was it?”

“ _Ugh_.”

“I'm making breakfast, do you want fried eggs, or scrambled?”

“You're what?” James looks up. “Seriously, actual breakfast?”

“Hash browns and all.”

“What? You hate hash browns.”

“Yeah, well.” Sirius rubs at the back of his neck, looking slightly embarrassed. “All the more for you, eh? Now, about those eggs... ”

“Do you even know _how_ to scramble an egg?”

“Of course I do,” says Sirius, with half-feigned huffiness. “They don't call me the Southwark Scrambler for nothing, you know.”

“I'm sure they don't.” James snorts. “Alright then, maestro, scramble me up a masterpiece – just give me a minute to shower.”

Hot water and a quick wank help enough that he feels almost human again by the time he sits down at their tiny kitchen table, stomach rumbling at the smell of sizzling bacon. The plate Sirius passes him is piled high with all the things he likes best, and James has to admit that none of it is burned, raw, or otherwise bungled, and that the scrambled eggs are, in fact, quite good.

“I told you so,” says Sirius, banishing their plates to the sink. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, much. Thanks for that - I can't remember the last time I ate something that wasn't toast or take away.”

“Yeah, well, don't get used to it or anything. This is a one-off bribe, not a lifetime commitment to making your dinner.”

James laughs, kicking at Sirius' foot under the table.

“This is my bribe? That's pitiful, Padfoot. If you're going to use breakfast to get back in my good books, you could at least throw in some beans.”

“Beans are disgusting,” says Sirius predictably. “Besides, it's not your whole bribe. Actually, while we're on the subject – stand up, will you?”

Feeling quite agreeable now that his stomach is full and his hangover tamed, James does as he asks. Sirius gets up too, and moves until he's standing right in front of him, closing his eyes and clasping his hands behind his back.

“Go on, then,” Sirius tells him, lifting his chin. “Get it over with.”

“Go on, what?”

“Hit me.”

James blinks, a bit taken aback. “What, you're just going to let me?”

“Well, yeah,” says Sirius, sounding impatient. “It's not much of an apology if I kick your arse, is it?”

“Technically, it's not an apology at all,” James feels compelled to point out. “An apology would involve saying that you're sorry.”

Sirius opens his eyes, his expression unexpectedly troubled. He shifts his weight, teeth tugging at his lower lip, his hands still held behind his back.

“You know I am.”

There's a tightness in James' throat that makes it hard to swallow. He wrenches his gaze away from Sirius' mouth.

“I suppose,” he says, shrugging, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Anyway, I can't just hit you without any build up. It would be weird.”

“What do you mean _build up?_ ”

“You know what I mean. We're not fighting or anything.”

“You're hopeless,” Sirius declares, relaxing out of his waiting-to-be-hit stance, and shaking his head. “The offer is time limited, you know. I won't be this sorry forever.”

He's such a complete wanker - it makes James laugh, like it always has done.

“Prat,” he says, a bit too fondly. “How long do I have then, before your remorse runs out?”

“I don't know, do I? Call it... ten days.”

“ _Ten?”_

“What, is that too long?”

“Not even a fucking _fortnight?”_

Sirius laughs. “Alright, a fortnight, then. I'll feel guilty for a whole fortnight, if it'll make you happy.”

“It's a start, I suppose”

“Just let me know when you want to punch me.”

James runs a hand over the top of Sirius' head, scruffing up his hair and making him scowl.

“I'm pretty sure you'll be able to tell.”

“Fuck off my hair, you wanker. Do you want the rest of your bribe or not?”

Obviously, James does, and curiosity overwhelms the impulse to wreak further havoc with Sirius' hair. He follows him into the living room, settling down on the sofa and looking up expectantly. Sirius summons a long, clumsily wrapped package and tosses it over, and James knows what it is as soon as he feels it in his hands. It can't be, it's not even out yet, but what point would there be in getting him any other broom? He rips off the newspaper –

“Fucking hell!”

The Nimbus 1700 gleams subtly up at him, sleek and streamlined and not available in any shop he knows of until next fucking Spring.

“Fucking _hell,_ Pads!”

“Good, isn't it?”

It's more than good – it's fucking _gorgeous._ The moment his fingers touch the polished wood, he knows he's never even looking at his old 1500 again.

“It's brilliant - how the fuck did you get hold of this?”

“Piece of cake,” says Sirius, grinning. He reaches in his pocket and plucks out a snitch, holding it up so it catches the light. “Fly with me?”

James stands up, hooks an arm around Sirius' shoulders and pulls him into a tight, sideways hug. Sirius laughs, and ducks his head, and leans into him, warm against James' side. He smells clean, that forest-in-the-rain smell again, and James hides a smile in his soft, dark hair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He hasn't flown much since moving to London, and not at all since Lily left. He'd almost forgotten the fierce, physical joy of it, the sheer rush of a sharp dive or sudden turn of speed. He's been so stupid - like some moronic eagle deciding to live as a chicken, waddling around with its head in the dirt for no good reason at all. He flies so far and so fast that the muscles in his legs twitch and tremble, and his heart burns like a cauterized wound. Sirius rushes past him, an inky blur against the near-black sky, swerving back around a couple of seconds later and slowing down to hover beside him. The wind catches Sirius' hair and he sweeps it impatiently out of his eyes, and he looks like he should be on a poster or something, repeating the gesture in slow motion on every billboard in the country. James' eyes are wet from the wind, and Sirius blurs out of focus when he forgets to blink, and his fingers feel like they're slipping even though they never would.

When they collapse on the sofa at the end of the night, his whole body seems to sing with exhaustion. He sleeps better than he has in months, though neither of them make it as far as their beds, and wakes up stiff-necked and clear-headed with Sirius snoring into his shoulder. They fly again that evening, and the next, and by Wednesday it goes without saying that they'll grab their brooms after dinner and apparate up to the roof. They race each other through dense, dark clouds, and follow the river to the edge of the city, circling the suburbs like massive birds of prey. London is theirs, and looking down on its constellations of neon light, James knows more surely than ever that their lives are going to be so fucking spectacular that they blast the so-called dark lord into the margins of history. They're going to make a footnote of the fucker, an obscure pub quiz question, a name the world forgets.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He's never liked going backwards, and lately there are moments when he looks at Sirius and feels the same anticipatory thrill that used to come with the first step into a secret tunnel he'd never explored before; the sense of unfettered possibility, the rush of finding something new in a place so familiar and intimately known._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Nothing says 'I love you' like a bit of light stalking.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James enters his 'controlling bastard' phase. CW for uncritical depiction of stalking, pushiness, and feelings expressed via the medium of (mostly mutual) violence.

**2.**

 

For a while, Sirius seems happier, on the ground as well as off it. Stealth will never be his best subject but his performance improves along with his mood, and he doesn't embarrass himself again. He puts a bit of effort in with the others too, and when the final week of the module comes around, he and Meadowes duke it out for third place as semi-friendly rivals. All in all, things are going well, and it seems pointless to pursue an explanation for a problem that's passed. Sirius will talk to him about it eventually, if there's anything to talk about at all.

James has almost convinced himself that the whole business was just a benign bout of moodiness when he wakes up at 6am to the sound of the front door squeaking. He sits up, fully alert in less than a second, his hand on his wand before the door clicks shut. He stays very still, listening hard as would-be-stealthy footsteps creep across the floorboards. A moment later, he lets go of his wand, fleetingly relieved before annoyance surges through him, setting him on his feet and propelling him toward the living room. What the hell does Sirius think he's doing? This is supposed to be over, really over this time, but no, there he is, freezing by the sofa when James walks through the door.

He's dressed up like a muggle – faded jeans and a vest that shows off the long, finger-shaped bruises on his upper arms. Someone's split his lip again, and there are vivid purple marks all over his face. James' throat clenches up and he can't force his voice out. He's staring like some idiot stranger, like he hasn't had years to get used to the way Sirius looks.

“James?”

His face is too hot. His knuckles strain as his fists clench tighter, tendons twitching in the back of his hand. He's not just annoyed now, he's fucking livid. That attention-seeking bastard is doing this on purpose, he has to be. Between the bruises and the swollen mouth and the damn muggle clothes, he looks like someone's fetish come to life. There's no way he doesn't know it, no way he's not loving the weird effect he has on James these days. These sharp, sudden spikes in awareness are no accident – Sirius is provoking them, provoking _James_ for no good reason at all, and he has the nerve to stand there looking _confused._

James hits him right in his stupid red mouth, and it feels fucking fantastic. Sirius staggers, gasping with pain and outraged surprise, one hand flying up to his face. His pupils are blown wide and his eyes are almost black, and he hardly looks human at all. James takes a steadying breath, and walks away without a word. He puts two slammed doors between them, and Sirius doesn't even try to follow him, to ask _why_ or _what the hell do you think you're doing._ James listens to him taking it out on the furniture, and gives up on the pipe-dream of one last hour's sleep.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, throwing himself onto the bed and shoving a hand under the waistband of his boxers. His knuckles sting from their collision with Sirius' face, and every time they brush against cotton the memory flares again. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

James is off his game all morning, and earns himself a personally tailored bollocking from Pembleton that makes him miss half his lunch break. He makes himself stand there and take it, fists clenched in the depths of his pockets, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw starts to ache.

 _"This is pointless,”_ he doesn't say. _“Why memorize regulations that no one except you even pretends to take seriously? Why should I listen to you, when you're stuck here telling me off while the real Aurors risk their lives? Why should I care about any of this when I'm knackered and hacked off and Sirius hasn't had the decency to heal his bloody face up before coming into work?”_

“Are you listening, Potter?”

“Yes, sir. You were saying that I think I'm too good for the rules, sir.”

Pembleton's suspicious, unimpressed gaze pins him to the spot. Damn the man, why does he have to be so tall? And why can't he be as stupid about anything else as he is about the sodding rules?

“Sorry, sir,” he tries, a bit desperate.

Pembleton shakes his head slowly, like he's disappointed, looking unnervingly like a dark-skinned version of James' dad.

“Just learn the regulations, Potter.”

James feels like he's failed a test. He hopes Sirius is fucking pleased with himself.

“Yes, sir.”

“You're dismissed.”

_Yeah, in more ways than one. Fuck you, old man. You can shove your disappointment up your fucking arse._

“Yes, sir.”

He's still grinding his teeth when he gets to the cafeteria, and the sight of Sirius laughing his big, bruised head off with Bones does nothing to sweeten his mood. At least the table is ten times longer than it needs to be, and Sirius is right up one end of it, nowhere near Robbins and Meadowes.

“Wow,” says Meadowes, when he takes the seat opposite hers. “That bad, was it?”

“I've had worse.”

“He's lying,” Robbins stage-whispers, nudging Meadowes' shoulder. “Look at his poor little face.”

“Shh, Bobby,” says Meadowes, doing a piss-poor job of pretending not to laugh. “You're making it worse – see, his eyebrows are going off now and all.”

If they weren't technically girls, he'd bang their heads together. A house elf pops a plate in front of him, and he stabs vengefully at his slab of steak, glaring at the two of them until they collapse into giggles.

“So, what's the story with you and Black?” Robbins asks, helping herself to one of his chips. “Did you do that to his face?”

She looks down the table with shameless curiosity, and James follows her gaze. Sirius has his arm around Bones' shoulders, leaning in close like they're the best of pals, all of a sudden. James' fork squeaks horribly against ceramic, and he jerks his head away.

“He's a cock, that's the story. And no - well, not most of it.”

“Who did the rest, then?”

“Who cares?” James shrugs. “What's Bones doing over there, anyway? Did Black need someone to keep him company while he has his little sulk?”

The girls share one of their bloody sideways looks, like they're making a silent pact not to laugh at him until he's out of the room.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Robbins says, holding her hands up like he's armed. “It's weird to hear you use his last name, that's all.”

“Yeah, well, it's the rules, isn't it? Heaven knows I'm not too good for the fucking _rules._ ”

“Right,” says Meadowes, glancing at Robbins in a _shut up_ sort of way. “Bones is upset about his cousin. I think Black is, you know, comforting him.”

James laughs out loud. That is the single most absurd thing he has heard in his whole entire life.

“ _Comforting_ him?”

“Um, yeah... ”

“He can be comforting, you know,” says Robbins patronizingly, like she's the one who's known Sirius since he was a tiny eleven year old wanker. “He was really nice to me when my dog died.”

“Oh, come off it, no he wasn't. When did your dog even die? Since when do you even _have_ a dog?”

“Since she was six,” says Meadowes sharply. “And he died _last week_.”

“Oh.” _Shit._ “Sorry, Robbins.”

He is, as well. She looks really sad, her big brown eyes all glossy like she might actually start to cry. He slides his plate towards her, offering up his last few chips as a gesture of remorse. She rolls her eyes and eats one, which probably means he's absolved.

With guilt out of the way, he's free to feel properly aggrieved by the fact that Sirius has somehow contrived to make _him_ look like the one who's an insensitive, self-centred prick. How on earth has Sirius convinced them that he's capable of comforting a normal human person? He thinks about owling their ex-professors and getting them to send a note or something, maybe some kind of certificate that establishes once and for all that he is a much nicer person than Sirius “Your Heartbreak Is Boring Me” Black.

“What's wrong with Bones' cousin?” he asks, because he can be interested in other people's problems – a million times more interested than Sirius could ever be. “ _He's_ not dead, is he?”

“He might as well be,” says Robbins with unexpected venom. “Really, it would be better if he was.”

“ _Bobby.”_ Meadowes shoots a paranoid glance in Bones' direction. “Not here, alright?”

“Why not? Just because he's Bones' cousin, that makes him different from the rest of those scum?”

“Of course not, but it's not Bones' fault, is it? He's really messed up about it, he doesn't need to hear you mouthing off about that stuff.”

“His cousin took the mark?” James cuts in, impatient.

“Yeah, he found out last night. Poor bastard – they used to be close, he said.”

“He'll keep that quiet, if he's got any sense,” says Robbins. “I know I would.”

James tunes them out. Sirius has his hand wrapped around the back of Bones' neck, and he's looking at him the way he sometimes looks at Remus, with this fierce, ungentle tenderness and a kind of absolute focus that, alright, might make a certain kind of person feel slightly better. Sirius looked at James like that all the time in the aftermath of Lily's departure, but hardly ever before or since, as if his other problems are somehow too trivial to earn it. He's always understood it with Remus – being a werewolf must be pretty rough, after all, and they've all tried to make him feel better about it in one way or another. Not that they've had the chance in recent months, but still, he's one of their own. What's so special about Bones and his precious death eater cousin? Half of Sirius' own relations are card-carrying members of the green skull brigade by now, and _he_ never wants _comforting_ about it.

 _Wait_ , he thinks. _Shit._

His chair scrapes loudly against the tiled floor, and Meadowes looks up in surprise as he stands up. He's stalking over to Sirius before he knows what he's doing, grabbing him by the back of the robes and hauling him out of his chair.

“What the _fuck -”_ Sirius yelps, struggling furiously. “Get off me!”

James wrestles him into a headlock, squeezing violently when Sirius tries to punch him in the stomach.

“Sorry, Bones,” he says over his shoulder, dragging Sirius away. “Real shame about your cousin.”

He gets them out of the cafeteria and into the wide, empty hallway before Sirius manages to tear himself free. James shoves him up against the nearest wall before he regains his balance, and Sirius snarls at him, wild-eyed and half-feral and making every effort to knee him in the balls.

“It's Regulus, isn't it?”

Sirius goes very still, very suddenly, and if James wasn't absolutely sure when he said it, he certainly is now.

“Why didn't you tell me he'd taken the mark?”

Something hot and angry flares in Sirius' eyes. “I didn't fucking _feel_ like it.”

James tightens his grip on his upper arms, fingers pressing into the bruises he knows are still branding his skin, hidden away under heavy winter robes. Sirius inhales sharply and the back of his head bumps against the wall, and time seems to slow to a crawl as James watches his teeth sink into his fat lower lip.

“What are you doing?” Sirius says hoarsely, refusing to look him in the eye.

“What am _I_ doing? You're the one who's been sneaking around and keeping secrets -”

Sirius surges forward against his grip, fighting him again all of a sudden. Then there's a cracking impact and blackness blots out James' vision, pain slamming through his skull as he reels back.

“You fucking little – did you just fucking _headbutt_ me?”

“Fuck you,” Sirius spits, rubbing at his own forehead. “You had it coming.”

“I was only trying to talkto you!”

“What, like we _talked_ last night?”

“Oh right, like that was _my_ fault - ”

Sirius glares at him, disbelieving. “Are you saying it was mine?”

“You know it was.”

“Why, because I left the house without your fucking permission?”

“Oh, come _on._ This is bullshit. Just tell me where you keep sneaking off to.”

“I don't _sneak_!”

“You don't sneak _well,_ you mean.”

“Um,” says Bones' voice behind him. “I'm really sorry, but we're already five minutes late.”

“Fine,” Sirius says shortly. “We're finished here anyway.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius goes out drinking with Bones, in a pathetic and transparent attempt to make James feel jealous. It doesn't work, because James is neither six years old nor some mad, controlling wanker who obsessively monitors his best friend's every movement, whatever Sirius thinks. He doesn't care about Bones – the man's an irrelevance, and Sirius can drink with him every night of the week if that's what he wants, because he's no more likely to drop James for that floppy haired fifth-place nobody than the Earth is to ditch the sun and orbit fucking Pluto.

Besides, the tracking spell will let him know if Sirius goes anywhere unusual. Earlier on, he felt quite bad about casting it – to the untrained eye, it could seem a bit creepy, especially the part where he made sure _all_ Sirius' socks were charmed to let James keep an eye on him. He had thought there was some small chance that Sirius might be reasonable, even though Sirius had been kicking the sofa for a full ten minutes at that point in time, and wouldn't know reason if it bit his cock off. Now, though, Sirius has proved himself committed to avoidance and immaturity, and James has no qualms left whatsoever. It's for Sirius' own good – who knows what kind of mess he's getting himself into out there? James has never once tried to rein him in when it wasn't absolutely necessary; ninety nine times out of a hundred, he's right there with him, egging him on and trying to outdo him. That's why Sirius has always listened when he does draw the line, and that's why it's so totally unacceptable that Sirius is now choosing to do whatever this is behind his fucking back. He doesn't appreciate being dealt with like some uptight killjoy who has to be kept in the dark.

The last time he stayed angry with Sirius for this long, they were fifteen. If he's honest, he can admit that nothing Sirius has done this time around really compares to the staggering, dangerous idiocy of sending Snape to the Shack. The thought doesn't do much to diminish his anger, though - mostly, it reminds him what a terrible person Sirius can be, and how justified he actually was in punching his misleadingly pretty face. Besides, for all he knows, Sirius _has_ done something that catastrophically stupid all over again, without the benefit of James' quick wits and heroic nature to limit the damage he can cause.

As if cued by that alarming notion, the tracking spell tingles. It's just fragments at first – concrete, blurred out faces, a flicker of orange light. He closes his eyes, forces himself to be patient, to wait for the whole picture. The moment the street comes into focus, he throws on his invisibility cloak, grabs his wand, and leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He follows Sirius past gutted flats and battered metal shutters, boarded-up pubs and angry graffiti. He'd be pretty angry, too, if he had to live here. Trust Sirius to find the scummiest corner of London that James has ever seen.

A few paces ahead of him, Sirius pauses, looking back over his shoulder. James stands very still, holding his breath while Sirius stares right through him. His heart speeds up as the moment stretches on, and his skin tingles like he's been swimming in champagne. He's missed this, the thrill of hiding right in front of someone's face, knowing there's no cover, no way to retreat if it all goes wrong. He stares back at Sirius, daring him to sense his presence, to turn around properly and have it out right here in the street.

Footsteps shatter the moment, suddenly loud and close, and Sirius' head whips around as someone turns the corner up ahead. James watches his body language shift from wariness to recognition as the figure advances, taking advantage of his distraction to move a little closer. The stranger is a man, broad-shouldered and bulky beneath his long, leather coat, and taller even than Remus.

“I thought you'd be here,” says the stranger, standing rather closer than is really polite. “Back for more, are we?”

“I'm back to kick your arse.”

“Oh, are you now?”

The bloke sounds amused, inappropriately fond, like Sirius is a fucking kitten or something. James is going to _really_ enjoy watching him get a face full of Sirius' weirdest and most disgusting hexes, any minute now.

“Laugh while you can, big man. No one beats me more than once.”

“So they say,” says the stranger. “I guess I'll be your first time then, won't I?”

James can't see his face very well, but he's almost positive that the massive creep is actually, literally _leering_ at Sirius. Who the hell is this loser, and why hasn't Sirius made him shit through his nose yet?

“Ha ha,” says Sirius, and James can hear the eye-roll in his voice. “Shall we go in, or did you want to postpone your beating with a bit more half-baked innuendo?”

The stranger laughs, lecherous and condescending. “Cocky little brat, aren't you? Come on, then, if you're so eager.”

Sirius _still_ hasn't reached for his wand. Either James is dreaming, or this so-called “Hackney” is some kind of mad pocket universe where the normal laws of nature don't apply. Instead of destroying the man, Sirius walks with him towards an ugly grey building just down the street, and James follows silently, keeping his eyes peeled for a hidden entrance. Disappointingly, Sirius stops in front of a perfectly normal looking red door, poking at a small metal box on the wall nearby. A moment later, the box crackles, and a tinny voice comes blaring out.

“ _Password?”_

“Achilles.”

The box crackles again and then goes quiet, and James inches closer. Nothing happens for a minute or two, and he finds himself watching Sirius, when he should be keeping an eye on the door. He wonders when Sirius changed out of his robes, if he went out with Bones looking like this, or only gets out his muggle costumes to come here. The jeans are the same as before, though James is in a better position to appreciate certain aspects of their fit than he was last time. Sirius seems to have worn them half to death; one back pocket is half torn off, and the denim hugging his arse looks thin and frayed and temptingly soft. It's asking for trouble, wearing those around a weird perv like this bloke. At least he's put a jacket on, this time; hiding his bruises under buckled black leather that James is close enough to smell.

A bolt scrapes on the other side of the door, and it opens halfway, revealing nothing for the moment but darkness. This is it – adrenaline buzzes under his skin as he takes the first quick step forward. No alarm sounds as he crosses the threshold, hot on Sirius' heels, and the door clicks shut behind him with no one any the wiser. He stops, pressing close to the wall to let the scrawny teenage doorman pass, and makes himself wait there a moment while the kid catches up with Sirius and his massive, awful friend. Best not to get too close now they're indoors – it's not like he's going to lose him in here.

He follows Sirius through the narrow, dingy corridor, treading a bit more carefully when he realizes that the muffling charm on his boots has stopped working. Weird, and worth noting, but not really a problem. He never used to bother back in school, and it's probably only Pembleton's over-cautious influence that made him use one tonight. Making sure that his feet touch the floor at the same time as Sirius' isn't much of a challenge, though habit makes it tricky not to speed up and fall properly into step. They descend a steep flight of stairs, with the kid nattering on about some fight he's seen recently, only pausing for breath when they come to a dense-looking metal door, which he hauls open with obvious difficulty, making the big man chuckle. James quickens his pace, catching the door just before it swings shut, bumping his shoulder as he squeezes through the closing gap.

The chaos that greets him is bracing after the hushed dimness of the stairwell, and his first impression is a jumbled mess of clamouring voices and bodies moving under dirty yellow light. It smells more strongly of pub than any pub he's been in – smoke and booze and sweat all turned up to eleven. Everyone he can see is male, and dressed in muggle clothes, though only magic can account for the scale of this place. It's not that it's hugely spacious, but it doesn't make sense for the size of the building, and the number of doors suggests some kind of underground labyrinth. There's a crudely built bar crammed into one corner, and Sirius heads straight for it, parting ways with the big man, who disappears into a dense ring of bodies on the other side of the room.

_Hey, what happened to kicking his arse?_

Weaving to avoid contact with the bodies barging aggressively past one another, James approaches the bar, scanning for a spot where he can hold position without constantly ducking other people's elbows. He finds one within earshot of Sirius and the door boy, and leans back against the wall, taking a proper look around. The place is like a bunker with its low ceiling and sticky concrete floor, its grey walls unadorned except for the dartboard hanging near the bar. To his left, there's a table inlaid with scuffed green felt, scattered with brightly coloured balls which a couple of blokes are taking it in turns to jab at with long, white-tipped sticks, for reasons best known to themselves. There are other, more normal tables arranged in a loose L-shape around the bar, but they're mostly unoccupied; everyone seems to be on the other side of the room, forming the noisy, circular crowd that the big man fucked off into.

“You're not going to watch?” the door boy is saying, slouching against the bar in poor imitation of Sirius.

“Can't be arsed.”

“Really? But it's – uh, I mean, yeah, no, me neither. Who gives a fuck, right? Hey, Jamie, you want a smoke?”

_Wait - Jamie?_

“Yeah, alright,” says Sirius, like he's doing the kid a favour. “Is your dad around?”

James doesn't catch most of the boy's rambling response, still hung up on the whole “Jamie” thing. It makes him feel weird – he's not sure if he's flattered, offended, or both. He watches smoke bloom from Sirius' nose, trying to picture him introducing himself that way. He hasn't heard the name in Sirius' mouth since they were thirteen, when James decided it didn't suit him any more. It doesn't suit Sirius either, though in his case, “James” would be an even worse fit. It's hard to think of any name that _would_ suit him, other than the ridiculous one he was born with.

“I get the picture,” says Sirius impatiently. “Just tell him I'm here, will you? I want a word about that bike he mentioned.”

“Gary's bike? What do you need to know? I could - I mean, I've seen it loads of times, I could probably... ”

“Off you go now,” Sirius interrupts him, ruffling the kid's mop of dark curls. “I've got grown-up business to attend to.”

“Oh. Yeah, right, of course. I'll just – yeah. See you later, Jamie.”

The boy scurries off through a door behind the bar, and Sirius wastes no time in disposing of his abandoned drink. He sits himself on a wobbly stool with his back to James, ordering another and laughing at something the barman says. It's clear he doesn't plan on moving for a while, and James thinks about shedding the cloak and joining him, not much enthused by the prospect of standing here all night and watching the back of Sirius' head while he does nothing more interesting than getting wasted. He could just stroll over and tap him on the shoulder, laugh at his surprise and demand to know exactly what's so special and secret about a bloody unlicensed bar. Sirius will get over his huffiness about the tracking spell once they've had a few drinks; when they've had a few more, he'll talk about his brother, and by the end of the night, everything will be back to normal. It's tempting, but it's also giving up, abandoning his mission. It's de-escalation, which is just another word for retreat - a nice way of saying you're afraid of a fight. Besides, he's not so sure he _wants_ things to be normal. He's never liked going backwards, and lately there are moments when he looks at Sirius and feels the same anticipatory thrill that used to come with the first step into a secret tunnel he'd never explored before; the sense of unfettered possibility, the rush of finding something new in a place so familiar and intimately known. What kind of a marauder would he be, if he turned his back on uncharted territory? He'd have to kick himself out of his own gang.

Distractingly, Sirius is shrugging his jacket off and dumping it over the bar, carelessly baring his bruised arms to all and sundry. The bruises have purpled since James last saw them, more blue than red now, and somehow even starker against Sirius' pale skin. It's as obvious as ever that they were made by rough, restraining hands, and James wonders if his own have left their mark there, if he held on hard enough when he had him pinned against the wall. He feels his cock twitch at the thought, and looks away, annoyed by the idea of getting a hard on while he's on a stakeout. It makes the whole business feel a bit tawdry and undignified, like he's on the wrong side of the Snape Line.

The crowd is thinning out on the other side of the room as several people peel off and head through a door at the back, and he spots the big man from earlier, looming up out of the throng. He heads in the opposite direction to the others, barging his way towards the bar with his eyes locked on Sirius. He's just reaching out with one massive hand when Sirius turns his head and lazily swats it away.

 _That's right,_ _get lost,_ thinks James smugly _. You can't seriously think he'd let the likes of you lay hands on him?_

“Hey, wallflower, the back room's opening. You going to spend the whole night hiding by the bar?”

Sirius bristles, setting his drink down with an over-emphatic thud, and standing up into the big man's personal space.

“I don't _hide_ from anything, mate, least of all a pissant like you.”

“Is that right? I'll tell John we're going first then, shall I? Give the new boys a proper demonstration.”

Sirius looks up, tilting his head in that cocky, challenging way that's always meant trouble.

“Bring it on.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pushiness, a bit of angry voyeurism, and a moment of clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the comments and kudos. Warnings at the end this time, because ~~spoilers~~

**3.**

 

The back room has its own password, and doors that lock with a heavy metal bar. Its focal point is a roped off platform that strikes James immediately as an arena, and the smaller crowd is densely packed around it, all eyes on the man at its centre. He's lanky, weak-chinned, and greying at the temples, and he should by all rights be one of the least impressive blokes that James has ever seen. It's hard to say what it is that means he's not. The way he moves, maybe – lunging and jerky, like a mad dog on a chain. Or, maybe, it's the way he won't stop smiling.

“I see a lot of new faces tonight,” the smiling man says in a voice too big for his body. “Welcome, brothers! Do you know why you're here?”

The crowd yells enthusiastically, if illegibly, and some try-hard to James' left pumps a fist in the air.

“You're here because someone thinks you've got the _balls_ to be here. One of us believes that you’re man enough to smash up that puppet you present to the world and find out what you really are. You have a rare chance tonight, my brothers! It’s a chance that every man deserves, a chance that was stolen from you before you learned to make a fist -- the chance to prove yourself on an even playing field!”

The fist-pumper whoops excitably at this, and he’s not the only one. James rolls his eyes. Honestly, these losers are lapping up this bullshit like they’ve never heard a man shout about balls before. He should introduce them to his uncle Mark - give the old nutter a few brandies and he’d have this lot eating out of the palm of his hand. How on earth does Sirius spend more than five minutes in this place without sneering his whole face off?

“And if we're wrong about you,” the smiling man is saying, somehow still banging on. “If you're not a man at all but a timid little bitch, who's too scared to break free of all the bullshit that's keeping you small and stuck and _mediocre –_ well, this is your last chance to make a run for it.”

That gets a few laughs, some more nervous than others. The smiling man aims his smile in the direction of each laughing voice in turn, and the sound turns strained and dry-throated, then snuffs itself out. Heads turn as the silence stretches on, and James finds he can pick out the new ones by the way they're frozen to the spot, so rigidly still it's like they're worried that the slightest twitch will be taken as a dash for the exit.

The smiling man claps his hands together, and James bites his tongue to keep from sniggering audibly at the sight of several grown men jumping out of their skin.

“Right then! Who wants to get us started?”

Several hands go up, but Sirius is already slipping between the ropes, followed – rather less gracefully – by his gigantic, knuckle-dragging chum.

“A rematch, eh? Perfect. You're in luck, my new friends. If Jamie here loses, you'll get to see a pledge fulfilled before you even make one of your own.”

Sirius laughs. “Don't get your hopes up.”

A few people cheer, though James isn't sure if they're cheering at Sirius or the prospect of a fulfilled pledge, whatever the fuck _that_ means. The crowd is buzzing now, shoulders bumping, bodies surging forward as the smiling man knocks his forehead into Sirius', then the big man's, and exits the arena. James has to press himself against the wall to avoid detection, craning his neck to get a half-decent view as Sirius approaches his opponent.

The first punch is a shock, even though it shouldn't be. It's not like it's a surprise that they're not going to have a nice, civilized duel, and it's not like he's never seen a fistfight before. He's _been_ in fistfights, and had more than one of them with Sirius, and there's no reason it should _shock_ him to see a fist smashing into Sirius' face with ruinous, bone-splitting force, hard enough to send him reeling. It's just the big man is so fucking _big,_ and Sirius did _nothing –_ why didn't he dodge, or strike first, like James knows he could have?

Sirius laughs, blood gushing from his broken nose, and bursts forward with the wild, sudden force of a breaking storm, dodging a blow even as he seems to throw himself towards it. Heads bob around in front of James, obscuring his view, and the next thing he knows, the big man is bellowing with pain and rage, tearing Sirius off him with a fist in his hair and throwing him to the ground. The massive bastard's ear is a bloody mess, and he clutches at it, cursing as Sirius rolls away from an attempted kick to the face. Springing to his feet, Sirius spits blood, shaking his hair out of his eyes and looking even more feral than usual, dodging a clumsy lunge and landing a lashing kick to the back of the big man's knees, taking advantage of the man's stumble to launch himself onto his back. They crash to the floor, where James can't see them, and all he has to go on are glimpsed flashes of dark hair and flailing fists, and the noises the crowd makes as it wraps itself more tightly around the arena. It's hard to interpret their cheers and wolf-whistles very accurately when they're so bloody indiscriminate; they seem to love Sirius exactly as much as they love watching him get hit. They roar and press forward, and he can't tell what it _means_ , and he wishes he was dressed as a muggle so that he could just slip off the cloak and rely on the crowd to keep him unnoticed. He sidles along the wall, and finds a gap wide enough to let him watch Sirius sink a knee into the big man's gut, grab him by the ears and headbutt him, before the damn bobbing heads move again and all he can see is a clump of bad haircuts.

Losing patience, he risks a few steps forward, pushing back when a shoulder rams into him. He can't stay stuck to the wall all night, he has to see what's happening, and who's going to notice an invisible elbow in this mob, anyway? It'll be fine as long as he doesn't stay still. He muscles past some twat with a mullet, and finds himself looking straight into Sirius' elated, bleeding face as he slams his opponent's head into the ground.

James forgets to move, fixed to the spot by savage grey eyes that look right through him, and then there's a tug and the cloak falls back, and Sirius _sees_ him – mouth falling open and eyes flying wide, attention ripped away for the second the big man needs to throw him off.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He yanks his hood back up and hurries sideways through the crowd, dodging when he can and shoving when he can't, and trying without much success to keep an eye on Sirius. What he can see isn't good – hands around Sirius' throat, a knee in the small of his back – and he has to stop, has to get a proper look at what's making the crowd shout like that. Sirius is trapped face-down on the floor, struggling uselessly as the big man wrenches his arm up behind his back. There's a hand in his hair forcing his head back, exposing his flushed, snarling face to the crowd, and James can see tears well up in his eyes when his arm gets another brutal upward twist. The big man leans down and speaks into Sirius' ear, too low to be audible, and Sirius tries to shake his head, crying out when the pressure on his arm increases. James' heart is hammering, he feels hot and cold and too big for his skin, watching Sirius gasp and curse and bite his lip to keep from screaming. There's this triumphant, _greedy_ look on the big man's face that he can't stand as the hateful fuck speaks to Sirius again, and this time Sirius answers, his face all twisted up with fury and defeat.

“Louder,” says the big man, raising his own smug voice for everyone to hear.

“Fuck yo – aaaaah! Fuck! – _alright!_ \- I fucking _yield!”_

“Good boy.”

Sirius' whole body jerks with anger, and the big man laughs, releasing him and getting to his feet. Sirius sits up, wincing as he rubs at his right arm, and James has to fight the mad, overwhelming impulse to go to him, to touch his hot, tear-slick skin and taste the blood in his mouth and take him away from here.

“Hurry up, then, or do you need me to remind you of your pledge?”

“Shut up,” says Sirius, moving onto his knees.

The big man unbuckles his belt, grinning horribly, and cold sweat beads on the back of James' neck. A hand on the back of Sirius' head urges him forward, tugs at his tangled hair to tilt his face up as the world's biggest creep gets his fucking cock out.

_No, no way, he would never -_

But Sirius _is,_ he actually is, he's opening his mouth and closing his eyes and letting the bastard ram it in. Time lurches to a standstill, everything slamming to a halt as Sirius kneels there with his lips spread around a stranger's cock and lets himself be used. Desire knifes through James, watching Sirius' cheeks hollow as he sucks, then disbelief strikes again, and then that cunt tugs Sirius forward and holds him there, with the whole fucking thing in his mouth, and there's nothing but pounding, paralysing _rage._ He sees Sirius' throat flutter, sees spit escape the tight seal of his mouth as he chokes, fresh tears squeezing out from under his lashes.

_How dare you, how dare you, how dare you -_

He doesn't even know who he means. Both of them, maybe. What the fuck does Sirius think he's doing, opening his mouth for scum like that? Kneeling there, sucking obediently, letting himself be hauled up and down on this bastard's cock like a fucking whore. Sirius wants _James,_ not men in general and definitely not men like _this._ In all the years of knowing that Sirius would get on his knees for him if he only said the word, it never once occurred to him that he'd do it for anyone else. This isn't right, this isn't how anything is supposed to work. This is _his,_ he just hadn't got around to claiming it yet - that doesn't mean that any old fucker off the street can waltz in and take it right from under his nose.

Why isn't he _doing_ something? Why is he just standing here, watching this happen? The sound of the crowd seems muffled and remote, the bodies around him only half real. The big man groans, fingers twisting in Sirius' hair, and James is going to snap his neck, he's going to tear him limb from fucking limb, any minute now. This has never happened before, this weird stasis – he's a man of action, for fuck's sake, not some useless, dithering lump who'd just _stare_ at the sight of his best friend sucking someone else's cock.

There's another groan, a violent thrust of the hips. James is going to _eviscerate_ this son of a bitch, he’s going to flay him, he’s going to turn him inside out. There'll be nothing left but fingernails and a big, fat stain. Sirius turns his head away and spits, wiping his chin with the back of one slightly shaky hand, tension in every sharp line of his body. James' hands are fisted so tightly his nails have punctured the skin of his palm, and his jaw aches as his teeth grind together.

Sirius' mouth looks obscene, swollen and shiny and well-used, redder than anything real should be. He stands up, and lets the big man take hold of his wrist and raise their arms up together, and the crowd becomes suddenly loud again, shouting and cheering and reaching towards the arena like they're going to drag Sirius down among them, tear him apart and fight each other for the pieces.

 _He's not for you,_ James thinks at them, seething. _You don't even know his real name._

The smiling man makes a reappearance, emerging from the crowd to clasp hands with Sirius and his disgusting conqueror. He's going on about pledges again, but James isn't really listening. Sirius ducks between the ropes and disappears into the waiting throng of bodies, and no, James is not having that. He pushes forward, no longer caring if anyone notices, scanning the room in a way that feels almost frantic, like something disastrous will happen if he doesn't find Sirius quickly enough. For a few long minutes there's no sign of him, and then with no warning at all he's inches away, so suddenly close that they nearly collide.

“James.”

He's still invisible, as far as he knows, but Sirius is glaring directly into his eyes. He can't speak for a second – there's too much he wants to say, and all he can think is _you sucked him off you sucked him off you sucked him off,_ an idiot litany that increases in volume the longer he stares at Sirius' mouth.

“I know you're there, for fuck’s sake. Say something.”

“Something.”

Sirius doesn’t look like he appreciates this generous effort to lighten the mood.

“This is not the time to get _cute_ with me, you fucking spying cunt.”

That’s a bit harsh. Nosy bastard would be fair enough, but really, _spying cunt_? It’s not his fault he had to resort to this, and besides, it’s only spying in the most pedantic and technical sense of the word.

“Jamie!” yells some random fucker, before James can make his point.

“Fuck,” says Sirius, glancing behind him. “Look, we can’t talk here -- come on, there’s a bathroom over there. Let’s have this out properly, shall we?”

 

 

* * *

 

He follows Sirius through the crowd, towards an unmarked door in the furthest corner of the room. With every step, the strange daze that struck him when they came face to face seems to wear away, corroded by the acid burn of anger and betrayal. By the time the door swings shut behind them, all that's left is violent impulse, and when Sirius turns and shoves him, he shoves back twice as hard. Sirius crashes into the wall with a _thwack_ and a cut off little cry of pain, blinks rapidly and then throws himself at James, grabbing a fistful of cloak and yanking him forward. James grabs him right back, making him curse when he gets hold of his right arm.

This isn't a fair fight – he's mostly invisible, and Sirius is injured, and he just doesn't give a fuck. Every reminder that the body he’s grappling with was touched by other hands and hurt by other men just winds him up tighter, makes him want to be more ruthless. They slam sideways into a sink, ceramic ramming into his side and punching the breath out of him. Grunting with pain, he exploits Sirius' equally winded state to bear him down to the floor, feeling the impact shock through Sirius' body when he hits the tiles. Sirius is too rattled and breathless to resist much when James gets hold of his wrists, half-sobbing when his bad arm gets tugged up and pinned to the floor above his head.

“ _Stay!”_ James snaps, tightening his grip when Sirius starts to move.

Sirius stills so abruptly it's like he's been petrified, lips parted silently as his pupils overwhelm the last slivers of grey in his eyes. James knows it's mostly just surprise, but all he can see is total, reflexive submission, and all he can think is _yes, fuck yes,_ as if a part of him was _waiting_ for this all along. He can feel Sirius’ pulse beating hummingbird-fast in the cage of his fingers, can feel how narrow his bones are. They fit in his hands like they were custom made for him, designed with this in mind, and he feels the same sense of incontrovertible rightness that struck him when he first held his wand, the same buzz of power and potential, the pull of some undefinable, soul-deep _affinity_.

Sirius blinks, and his wrists flex suddenly against James' hold, that strange, hypnotized expression banished by more familiar outrage.

“What the _fuck?”_

The moment slips out of James' grasp, even as his fingers clamp down harder on Sirius' wrists. He feels disoriented, unbalanced, so frustrated he could tear his skin off. His cock is so hard it fucking aches.

“That's what I want to know,” he says sharply. “ _Jamie.”_

Sirius flinches ever so slightly, like the name is a bee-sting.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

“I followed you, obviously. So the real question is, what are _you_ doing here?”

“No, James, the real fucking _question_ is why the fuck are you _following me_?”

“I wanted to know where you were going. My turn – why are you using my name?”

“It's just a name. It's not _yours._ You haven't used it since we were twelve.”

“Thirteen,” he points out, purely in the interests of accuracy. “And it's still my name.”

“It's just a name! It was the first thing that came into my head, alright? I can't believe _this_ is what you want to talk about. Are you seriously this pissed off about a fucking pseudonym?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“What then?” Sirius tries to tug his wrists free again. “What am I supposed to have _done?”_

It's such a ridiculous question, James doesn't know quite how to answer it.

“You know what.”

“I really fucking don't _.”_

“All of it!” James explodes. “All of this bullshit! Sneaking around and joining weird cults and sucking off the scum of the fucking earth, that's what you've fucking _done,_ Sirius. You expect me just to let you disappear into some mad secret world of punching and blow jobs without lifting a finger? Did you think I'd take being fobbed off and lied to by _you,_ of all people?”

Sirius looks like he's been slapped, more wounded than angry for the split second it takes him to regain control. Little pinpricks of guilt trouble James' brain, but it's a bit late for that, at this point.

Besides, it's all true, anyway. It’s not like it’s _his_ fault that Sirius sucked that scumbag off right in front of him, is it?

“I didn't lie,” says Sirius, all gritted teeth and hooded, hostile eyes. “I never lie to you.”

“Oh, like hell you don't, what about seventh year?”

“What about _–_ oh, fuck's sake, _that?_ Why the fuck would you bring that up now?”

“I don't know,” James sneers, extra sarcastic to mask the fact that he actually doesn't. “I'm sure this has nothing at _all_ to do with that -”

He didn't think Sirius could get much more tense, but somehow that does it.

“Fuck you, you arrogant fucking -- this has nothing to do with you!”

“Oh, really? That's why you use my name, is it? That's why you make sure I see every mark they leave on you, and only disappear when you know I'm paying attention? Because your need to suck the cock of any stranger who can beat the shit out of you is completely unrelated to the hard on you've had for me since you learned how to toss yourself off.”

Sirius flushes crimson, fury distorting his face to the point where he could almost pass for ugly. He looks at James like he might actually _hate_ him.

“Let me go. _Now.”_

James does it without thinking. It's not in him to refuse Sirius anything when he properly means it, and besides, he feels a bit sick. That was definitely going too far, and the fleeting thrill of crossing the line has already given way to gutpunch guilt and a weird, awful feeling that might be what people mean when they talk about shame.

He stands up and shrugs his cloak off, extending a hand to Sirius out of sheer force of habit. Ignoring the offer, Sirius rises unsteadily and wastes no time in turning his back on James, putting as much space between them as the cramped bathroom will allow. He pauses with one hand on the doorknob, and James' stomach twists, nausea spiking at the thought of leaving things like this.

“Pads -”

Sirius' head whips around. “ _Fuck_ you _,_ Potter.”

“I'm sorry, alright?” James says urgently, risking a step towards him. “I shouldn't have said that. You know I didn't mean anything by it.”

The hand on the doorknob tightens its grip, and Sirius' shoulders dip.

“Yes, you did.”

“Alright, maybe, but not what you think. I didn't mean to be a dick about it.”

James can see him trying to cling to his anger, and knows he'll fail even before the harsh little sigh confirms it. Sirius turns to face him properly, looking bitter and unusually tired as he rubs at the back of his neck.

“Now who's the liar?”

His tone is snippy, but no longer actively venomous. The knot in James' chest slackens, and he takes a deep, relieved breath, moving closer. He wants to smile, but it'll only set Sirius off again if he seems to relax too much, too soon.

“Yeah, okay, I shouldn't have said that either.”

“No, you fucking shouldn't.”

Prickly and sullen is a much better look for Sirius than homicidally unhappy, and James can't quite resist the urge to touch him. He keeps it brief and non-invasive, letting his hand rest on Sirius' shoulder for no more than a couple of seconds. Sirius tenses up, but he doesn't bite or recoil, which suggests that James is, at least, handling things better than he did at seventeen.

He needs to stop thinking about that. He's spent years not thinking about it outside of the occasional dream or drunken moment, it shouldn't be hard to not think about it now. It wasn't exactly his finest hour, after all. It's not like he's _proud_ of the fact that the one and only time he's seen Sirius look properly humiliated, it was basically all his fault.

“Sirius,” he says, letting his voice go soft and low. “I really am sorry.”

It might be a bit unfair to exploit Sirius' ill-disguised weakness for that particular way of saying his name, but it's not like James wouldn't do it anyway. It's not like it's a special voice that he made up to mess with him – he only even knows that he does it at all because Sirius is so easy to read.

“It's fine.” Sirius averts his gaze and tugs a hand through his hair, dishevelling it even further. “Just shut up about it, alright?”

“If you like,” says James agreeably. “Your wish is my command.”

“Are you trying to be _gallant_ now _?_ ” Sirius scoffs. “We've talked about this, Prongs.”

“I know, I know, I'm not a knight. Which is bullshit, by the way, because if knights weren't extinct, I would obviously be one.”

He's disproportionately pleased when the corner of Sirius' mouth quirks upward, like eliciting that exasperated little half-smile is up there with his greatest achievements to date.

“What, Sir Potter? They'd never let you into knight school with a name like that. Besides, your head's too big for those stupid metal hats.”

“I'd be Sir _James_ , you dullard. You're the one with knight name problems.”

“Sir Sirius – ugh, you're right. _Sir Sirius_.”

“More a stutter than a title, isn’t it?”

“Imagine if Pete was my herald. _B-b-brave Sir-sir-sir-sir-Sirius -”_

His impression of poor old Wormtail is as unkind and accurate as ever, and James cracks up, joining in. They stutter and laugh at each other for longer than is probably grown up, and James feels scoured clean by the end of it, like some creeping poison has been purged from his blood. Sirius leans against the door, loose-limbed and breathless and smiling, and James has to bite his tongue to keep a sudden rush of want from running away with it.

“We should get out of here,” Sirius says after a moment. “Someone's going to need to piss sooner or later, and I can't be found laughing it up with a bloody gatecrasher. You clear off home, I'll hang around here for a bit and see you tomorrow, alright? We can drink that foul red wine you like and pretend tonight never happened.”

While feigned amnesia is a perfectly acceptable fix for the damage he's done to Sirius' pride, James has no intention whatsoever of acting like he's forgotten the rest of what happened here. Now is probably not the most opportune moment to make that known, though, so he settles for crossing his fingers behind his back as he nods.

“Or we could skip to the last part,” he suggests casually. “Come home with me. You pick the poison, as long as it's not that beer, and I’ll fix up your nose. We can go flying, if you like, see if there really is a kraken in that reservoir down South… ”

Sirius shakes his head, but James can tell he's considering it.

“I'm supposed to fight again in a bit.”

“Oh, well, if you're _supposed_ to. I wouldn't want to make some kind of rule-breaker out of you.”

It wouldn't work on any halfway reasonable person, and even on Sirius, it might not prove effective if he didn't already want to do it. He does, though - it's obvious from the way he's scowling.

“You're such a prick,” Sirius says, without any real rancour. “Alright, then, if you insist. Let's make a run for it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do it properly, alright?” Sirius warns, eyeing him suspiciously from the other end of the sofa. “I don't want a beak, or a snout, or a fucking _trunk_ – ”

“That was _six years_ ago _,_ Padfoot.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn't funny.”

“It was hilarious, and you loved it,” says James, fishing in his pocket and pulling out his wand. “Now, hold still.”

Sirius flashes him a quick _fuck off_ with his middle finger, and sits up a bit straighter, angling his body towards James and closing his eyes.

“Go on, then.”

He looks softer like that, expectant and disarmingly vulnerable, and James has to swallow hard before he can get the spell out. Sirius' eyelashes twitch as his nose realigns itself, crooked bone straightening out with a subtle crunch. It's done in a matter of seconds, and James turns his attention to the mess of dried blood and bruising, fading purple back to palest pink and smoothing out the swelling until every trace of Sirius' encounter with that fucking random thug has been erased. He feels a flicker of disappointment as he lowers his wand, finding himself unwilling to give up the strange feeling of power and intimacy that comes from watching Sirius' skin and bones altering at his direction. It's only magic, of course, but it feels like something else - like he's whispering to something woven into the filaments of Sirius' body that answers only to him.

 _Mine,_ he thinks, and there’s enough heat and force behind it to shock him just a bit.

_You can let every creep in London have his way with you, and you'll still belong to me._

“James?” says Sirius, his voice quiet and strained. “Why are you staring?”

He should snap out of it, but he can't seem to want to. He moves closer, shifting along the sofa until his knee bumps against Sirius'.

“How would you know if I'm staring?”

Sirius coughs, the tips of his ears turning pink. He still hasn't opened his eyes.

“I can feel you doing it.”

“Yeah?” James leans forward, smiling to himself when Sirius' breath hitches audibly. “What does it feel like?”

Sirius' leg jerks away like he's been burned. James glances down reflexively, and his gaze catches and lingers on the unsubtle bulge in Sirius' jeans.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _Well, fuck._

It's not like he didn't know that he makes Sirius hard, but _seeing_ it is something else, and his whole body seems to stutter and spark at the sight. Those clothes leave Sirius so fucking _exposed –_ if he were dressed normally, James would be left to infer and suspect as usual, rather than staring at the outline of his cock through straining denim.

He could pretend not to notice. Sirius' eyes are still shut, after all, though the colour stealing up his throat suggests at least an inkling that James is aware of his predicament. He could back off, even leave the room for a moment or two, make some excuse to spare Sirius' pride another denting. Why should he, though? He doesn't _want_ to back off. He wants to push, to take everything Sirius has always wanted to give, and why not just do it? Lily isn't coming back, she's made that clear enough. There's another future now, newly hatched and humming in the palm of his hand – all he has to do is close his fingers. Make the catch, win the game, it's the only thing that makes sense. Letting impulse take the reins, he presses even closer, and curls a hand around the back of Sirius' neck.

“Looks to me like it feels pretty good,” he whispers, his lips grazing the hot tip of Sirius' ear.

Sirius actually _shivers._ The muscles in his neck clench and tremble under James' fingertips, and James gets a split second to appreciate how incredibly fucking hot he finds that, before Sirius shakes him off, stumbling to his feet with none of his usual grace.

James' hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. “Wait -”

“ _Stop it,_ ” Sirius hisses, his cheeks flushed and his eyes flaring murderously. “Just -”

“Why don't _you_ stop running away?”

Sirius makes a strangled noise, like he's literally tongue-tied with rage, and wrenches free of James' hold. When James reaches for him again, he throws a hand out, and the world goes topsy-turvy as the sofa keels over backward, sending James head-over-heels so violently it's a miracle he doesn't break his neck. It really fucking hurts, and he groans as he gets his glasses back on straight, too dazed to do more than swear belatedly at Sirius' retreating back.

He hears Sirius' bedroom door slam shut as he finds his feet. At least he hasn't left the flat, this time – James is pretty sure he'd really, properly lose it if Sirius tried to go back to his fucking cult right now. He thinks about following him, kicking his door open again and forcing the matter. It won't do any good, though. Sirius doesn't take well to being cornered, and there's no hope of talking any sense into him when he's in this state. He's obviously got it into his head that James is fooling around, and while that's sort of understandable, it's also stupid, paranoid, and profoundly insulting. Even on that bloody night in seventh, it's not like James _planned_ to make him feel bad, and the idea that Sirius thinks otherwise is really rather difficult to stomach. Besides, it should be obvious that this is different. Sirius can hardly be oblivious to the way James has been looking at him recently, even if he won't admit to going out of his way to invite it.

Perhaps Sirius knows perfectly well that there's no trick or trap, after all. Perhaps he just wants James to chase him, and is only dragging things out because he gets off on being contrary. It doesn't seem that way, but then, it _seems_ like Sirius is scared, and that's just fucking ridiculous. Maybe this is just how he flirts when he actually means it, the same way Lily used to express her affection via insult, magical assault, and apparently boundless contempt, back in the early days of their courtship. That's all very well, but it does seem a bit much to have to run that admittedly entertaining gauntlet with someone who's already his best friend. He hasn't had sex in _months_ , for fuck's sake, and he could be having it right now if Sirius weren't such a difficult bastard. It would be fucking _great_ sex, as well, which Sirius must know, having been practically gagging for it all these years.

Honestly, it's his loss as much as James' – maybe more so, since he's wanted it for longer. If he wants to cut off his nose to spite his face, let him do it. He's never had an ounce of self-discipline, and he'll come running soon enough if denied anything to push back against. James can be patient, whatever people say, and he can play this game as well as anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: more violence, ambiguously consensual public sex (Sirius/OMC), ~~don't talk about Fight Club~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, kissing, too much dialogue. One step forward, three steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to anyone reading. CW for the usual casual violence, plus internalized homophobia with attendant (self-directed) slurs.

  **4.**

 

 

He’s had dreams about Sirius for as long as he’s known him, but never quite like this. They’ve been graphic before -- he first worked out he could have him at the age of sixteen, of course he fucking _dreamed_ about it -- but never quite so urgently, unrelentingly _literal_ , or so directly linked to the real world and the things he’d like to do in it.

He follows Sirius; that's how it starts every time. What happens next is sometimes gentle and more often not, and ends the same, either way. He wakes up so hard it almost hurts, palming his cock before he's even fully conscious. The images lingering behind his eyelids are a fusion of memory and invention – Sirius' swollen, bloodied mouth moving silently, _please James please,_ spreading eagerly around the head of his cock. When he comes, he makes enough noise that Sirius should be able to hear him through the walls - if he's going to have to suffer through this blight of unnecessary sexual frustration, he's certainly not going to be _quiet_ about it. With any luck, Sirius will spend the day picturing him with his hand on his cock and get so wound up with wondering if he was in James' head while he was touching himself that he forgets all his bullshit and jumps him.

As it turns out, the results of this undoubtedly brilliant plan leave quite a lot to be desired. By four in the afternoon, James has failed to memorize half of the fat surveillance rulebook, eaten rather more toast than he really wanted, and been forced to accept that it is actually possible to over-polish a broom, after all. When he checks the clock again, it's five past four, and he slams the book shut, letting it fall to the floor with a satisfying thump.

For the fifth time in half an hour, he eyes the bottle of elf-sherry that represents the sum total of their remaining booze supply. On the one hand, he found it in the cleaning cupboard, and someone has written DON'T!! all over the label in an emphatic sort of way. On the other, it has a funny picture of a house elf on it, and it is undeniably made of alcohol, unlike every other worthless liquid in this squalid shit-hole he calls home. The word _don't_ is inherently enticing, of course, but he also has a niggling sense that the handwriting is his own, and a vague but insistent recollection of vomiting in a way that was somehow deeply _wrong._

This is ridiculous – he should just go out and buy something that's fit for human consumption. The walk would clear his head, and work some of the restlessness out of his system, and he hates being cooped up on a Saturday, even if it is pissing it down out there. If he leaves, though, how will he know if Sirius buggers off back to that cult? As long as he's in the living room, Sirius has to pass him if he wants to go anywhere, since they can't apparate inside the flat. It's not like he's going to bar the door or anything – it's not like he wants to keep Sirius locked up in here like some kind of prisoner. He's just being practical; he doesn't much fancy traipsing through Hackney in the pouring rain to watch Sirius suck off strangers two nights in a row, and if Sirius does insist on going back, the least he can do is give James a fair chance to talk him out of it. If Sirius would only get over himself and stop lurking in his room, they could go out together, and there'd be no need for any of this. If this sherry leads James to a disgusting and undignified death, it will be almost entirely Sirius' fault, and he will deserve to clean up any ensuing mess without any magical assistance whatsoever.

The smell makes him retch as soon as he gets the cap off. Face screwed up, he brings it as close to his face as he dares, and takes a sniff.

_Yeah, no, fuck this._

Gagging, he screws the cap back on and drops the bottle on his rulebook. He must have been beyond drunk to have got as far as swallowing _that._ No, this won't do. Hang waiting - he wants a proper drink, and Sirius is coming with him to get one, whether he likes it or not.

Sirius hasn't locked his door, at least, and when James shoves it open, he makes no effort to stop him coming in. He's on the window-seat, a sharp-edged silhouette against shining, rain-blurred glass, with one leg bent at the knee to support a sheaf of parchment. The light from the window lends his skin a strange, muted glow that makes him look like some expensive painting, at least until he turns his head to scowl at James' approach.

“What do you want?”

“ _I thought you didn't hide from anyone,”_ is what James had intended to open with, but he finds that now he's here, he doesn't actually feel like picking a fight.

“We're out of booze,” he says instead. “I nearly drank the stuff under the sink.”

“Don't,” advises Sirius flatly. “You know what happened last time.”

“I think I've repressed it, actually. The point is, we're completely dry. Even the emergency gin is gone.”

“It can't be, I replaced it last month.” Sirius waves a dismissive hand, and turns back to his parchment. “Bugger off and have a proper look.”

“What do you mean, a proper look? I turned the fucking bottle upside down in case you'd turned it invisible - I'm telling you, we've got nothing.”

Sirius huffs irritably, quill still poised above the page.

“Well, I only drank the original. If it's gone, you've only got yourself to blame. What was the fucking emergency, anyway? It's not like Evans can have dumped you _again_.”

It stings less than Sirius probably means it to, and quite a bit less than James might have expected. For maybe a second, all he can see is the light from the street-lamp catching in her lovely, coppery hair as she turned her back on him, but a couple of blinks is all it takes to banish the image. The idiot part of him that finds Sirius' capacity for obnoxiousness both funny and endearing rears its head again, and the shove he gives his shoulder is too light to seem anything other than playful.

“It's a funny story - I suddenly realized I was living with a complete heartless bastard with no respect for my feelings.”

“Fuck off! You're spoiling my letter, you prick -”

“I should shove your precious letter up your arse,” says James, grappling with him when he tries to push his hand away. “Who are you writing to, anyway?”

“I was _trying_ to write to Remus,” grumbles Sirius, disentangling their fingers. “And I do respect your stupid feelings.”

Now that James thinks about it, the moon has started to fill out again. He feels a niggle of guilt at the realization that he'd forgotten to notice. Releasing Sirius' hand, he joins him on the window-seat, moving Sirius' ankles to free up some room.

“He'll say not to come, you know.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Offer my services, too, obviously.”

“I always do,” Sirius shrugs, budging up a bit. “You're staying then, are you?”

“What, do you mind?”

“No, of course not. You'll be bored, though – this might take a while.”

“Why, are you penning him a sonnet or something? Anyway, I don't mind. I'll be boring, too, and spend some quality time with the old rulebook.”

Sirius looks up from his letter, cocking his head. “You're going to _do your homework?”_

“Not much choice,” James says, summoning his book. “You heard Pembleton the other day – I'm not getting kicked out because I forgot a fucking sub-clause.”

He leans back against the window, propping one foot up on the edge of the seat so he's got a knee to support the book. He can just about feel the chill of the glass through his robes, a faint, pleasant coolness against his back, and once he shifts a couple of pillows, it's really quite comfortable here. Sirius' bare toes nudge up against his outer thigh, blue-tinted from the cold, burrowing into the non-existent space between James' leg and the cushioned seat. James lays his free hand over one narrow foot, letting the warmth of his palm banish the biting cold from Sirius' skin, and pretending not to notice the way Sirius' toes curl, or the flicker of tension that tightens all his tendons at the first moment of contact.

“You know he'd never really kick you out,” says Sirius, after a moment. “You're his golden boy; he's just trying to keep you on your toes.”

“I dunno, it didn't sound like he was bluffing. You know what he's like about the fucking rules.”

“Yeah, but he's not stupid. He's got to know you're not replaceable.”

It's as casual and matter-of-fact as every other time Sirius has bluntly acknowledged that he's brilliant, and as usual, it feels like getting a personal endorsement from the sun. James runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide his grin.

“An excellent point, my dear Padfoot, but rather lacking in detail. Would you care to elaborate? Tell me more about how special I am… ”

“Fucking hell, what have I done?” Sirius groans, shaking his head and failing to suppress a laugh. “Put your insufferable face back in your book, for fuck's sake, and let me finish my letter.”

“I wasn't stopping you, was I? You're the one who felt the burning need to tell me how _irreplaceable_ I am.”

“To Pembleton, I said, not to me. Personally, I'd shove you out the window without a second thought if I didn't need you for a foot warmer.”

James laughs, giving the foot in question a quick squeeze. “I'd like to see you try.”

Adopting a haughty, superior look, Sirius makes a point of turning his attention back to his letter. James watches him for a moment or two, wondering idly if Sirius plans to make a habit of wearing muggle clothes around the flat like this. Does he know how unreasonably distracting James finds it? It's worse than if he were naked; there's something dissonant about it that tugs at James' attention, something irresistibly compelling about the contradiction between what Sirius is trying to pass himself off as and what he actually is.

Sirius shoots him a would-be-surreptitious glance, and James drops his gaze back to his rulebook. Now is probably not the ideal moment for another conversation about Sirius' feelings vis-à-vis his staring habits, tempting as it is to push his luck. He makes himself focus on the page in front of him, repeating sentences until they actually stick. After a while, it becomes less forced, and the information starts to sink in without so much conscious effort. The sound of Sirius' quill scratching away is quite relaxing, and as long as James doesn't look at him for too long, it's actually easier to concentrate now that they're in the same room. Whenever he feels himself start to glaze over again, he takes a quick break to watch Sirius stretch, or bite his lip, or smile at some joke of his own devising, then starts again from the beginning of the paragraph.

It's a good system, and it sees him through several long, tedious sections of the rulebook before a change in the rhythm of Sirius' writing redirects his attention. There's a momentary hesitation, then a fierce, hurried rush, and a moment later, the scratchy flourish of a signature. Sirius folds the letter up and whistles, causing his savage little demon of an owl to burst out of some hidden corner and flap madly around James' head.

“Fuck off – _ow! -_ fuck's sake! Control your fucking bird, you bastard!”

Sirius just laughs, like he always does, and murmurs approvingly to her when she settles on his wrist.

“Could you at least stop actively nurturing her desire to maim me?” James objects, trying to sort out the mess she's made of his hair. “It's your fault she's like this, you know.”

Sirius ignores him, attaching his letter and sending her on her way with a fond little caress, and instructions to bite Remus' ears off if he tries to send her back without a reply. Once she's out of sight, he leans back again, producing a pack of cigarettes from under a cushion and lighting one up. His eyes drift shut as he takes a drag, cheeks hollowed and lips parted, sending coils of smoke spiralling up towards the high ceiling.

“Buying your own, now?” James says. “Aren't you supposed to be a social smoker?”

Sirius tips his head back, exhaling, and gives a lazy, one-shouldered shrug.

“You're here, aren't you?”

“Yes, but I don't smoke, do I? If anything, you're being _anti_ social.”

“You don't mind,” says Sirius complacently, tapping ash into a manky old cup.

James could argue - for all Sirius knows, he might very well mind his living space smelling like a fucking ashtray. It would be hard to muster much conviction, though, and really he'd rather just watch him, taking advantage of Sirius' closed eyes to admire the arc of his wrist and the way his fingers taper, and to stare at his mouth without interruption.

There's also the matter of that moment's hesitation to consider, and it's not hard to guess what might have caused it.

“You told him about Regulus, didn't you?”

The tendons in Sirius' foot twitch under his hand again, and his eyes screw themselves more tightly shut. James runs a finger up the high arch of his instep in a half-conscious attempt at reassurance.

“Hey,” he says, a little surprised at the gentleness in his own voice. “I'll drop it, if you want me to.”

Exhaling smoke with a soft, ragged sigh, Sirius opens his eyes.

“I know,” he says quietly, taking another deep drag. “It's alright. I thought... I don't know. He might have heard something. Fuck knows what he gets up to these days, but he must talk to _someone_. He might get the wrong idea, that's all. I don't want him thinking - well, you know what I mean.”

“What, that you want to protect your brother? No one's going to think less of you for not wanting to shout it from the rooftops, you know.”

Shaking his head sharply, Sirius stubs out his fag and lights up another.

“Not that.”

“What, then?”

“You know,” says Sirius, clipped and impatient, averting his gaze. “The rumour mill won't necessarily specify _which_ Black heir, will it?”

“ _What?_ Come on, you can't think -”

“Why not? Most people forget I've even got a brother. I bet half our year thinks I'm the twat with a snake on his arm, by now.”

James feels like he's taken an elbow to the gut. It hadn't crossed his mind, not even once. Why would it? It's mental – no one would think that. They wouldn't fucking _dare,_ because he would actually, literally kill anyone who so much as thought about thinking it. He wouldn't have to resort to that, though, because the idea of Sirius as a death eater is so self-evidently ludicrous that even fucking _Snape_ would never entertain it for more than a second.

“That is hands down the most idiotic thing you've ever said,” he says, sounding angrier than he meant to. “Have you actually cracked? Do I need to call St Mungo's and have your fucking head examined for real this time?”

Scowling, Sirius tugs his foot out from under James' hand. “Ha fucking ha.”

“Listen to me.” James catches hold of one retreating ankle, digging his fingers in until Sirius meets his eyes. “Anyone who's so much as heard of you knows what side of this you're on, alright? It's never been a fucking question. And as for Remus – he wouldn't believe that of you if Merlin himself popped by to deliver the news, and he'd punch your stupid face in for thinking any different.”

He holds Sirius' gaze, trying to force his own certainty into Sirius' brain through sheer force of will. The expression on Sirius' face makes his chest tighten unpleasantly – he looks like he genuinely needed to hear that, like it doesn't just go without saying, the way it obviously should.

“He would not,” says Sirius thickly, blinking hard. “Moony is far too civilized to punch anyone.”

“Well, I'd punch you for him, then.”

“How very chivalrous.” Sirius clears his throat, and uses the excuse of re-lighting his half-smoked fag to look away again. “I'm sorry for not telling you, you know. About Regulus and everything.”

“Don't worry about it,” James says, rather taken aback. He can't remember the last unsolicited apology he got out of Sirius, and as put out as he was about it, he probably doesn't deserve one for that. “You'd have told me sooner or later. I shouldn't have had a go about it, really.”

“No, you were a complete arse about it, don't get me wrong, just – I did want to tell you. When I found out, the first thing I – well, it doesn't matter now, does it? I'm glad you worked it out, that's all.”

“When _did_ you find out?”

“April,” says Sirius, somewhat reluctantly. “Remember the day you saw that weird crab?”

“That long?” James can't help but feel a bit outraged again. “Seriously, I thought maybe a month at the outside... wait, hang on, that was the week I moved in here, wasn't it? That's why you gave me those bloody mushrooms, because you think nightmarish hallucinations somehow help with heartbreak -”

“It _did_ help,” Sirius interjects, offended. “It took your mind off Evans, didn't it? All you cared about for hours was that fucking crab.”

“Is that why you didn't tell me, then? Because of Lily?”

“Well, it was a bit hard to tell you anything while you were crying into her old scarf and insisting your life was over, yeah.”

Much as he'd like to object to that characterization, it's hard to dispute that he did quite a lot of both those things, and for quite a long time, too. He did plenty of _other_ things, obviously, but he can concede that helping him plot to get her back, helping him implement those plots, and helping him stagger home at six am with puke on his shoes after they invariably failed, probably didn't make it any easier for Sirius to tell him anything.

“So you've been, what, waiting for me to get over it?”

Sirius looks vaguely uncomfortable, sucking in smoke with more force than is really necessary. “I suppose.”

It strikes James that there might be some grain of truth to the idea that he can be a bit of a self-centred twat, after all.

“Idiot,” he says, in lieu of an apology. “Anyway, I am now, so if there's anything else you need to get off your chest... ”

“What, seriously?”

The blatant scepticism in Sirius' voice is frankly rather insulting. What, does he expect James to spend his entire life pining for someone who won't have him, just because she's the loveliest, funniest, most brilliant girl ever to grace the planet?

“You don't have to say it like that. I am – well, as much as I'll ever be. I'm moving on.”

There are, after all, other kinds of human.

“Oh. Well. Good for you, mate.”

Sirius leans over to clap him on the shoulder, smiling in a way that shows too many of his teeth. To someone who didn't know him very well, he might conceivably pass for pleased.

“Yeah,” says James absently, distracted by this baffling descent into awkwardness. “The point is, my undivided attention is at your disposal if you do want to talk about it.”

“Thanks,” says Sirius, shoulders slumping as his unnatural smile fades away. “I don't, really. It's not like it's going to change anything, is it? I wish he had more sense – what else is there to say?”

James rubs a thumb over the sharp little spur of bone on Sirius' ankle.

“Alright, then. Offer's open, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Sirius spends a long time grinding out the end of his cigarette. “Have we really got _nothing_ to drink?”

“Not a drop, I'm afraid. Unless you want to brave that sherry.”

Suddenly brisk and purposeful, Sirius shakes James' hold on his ankle with a needlessly violent kick and hops off the window-seat.

“This is a travesty,” he declares, tugging a pair of unmatched socks on and rummaging around for his boots. “We've disgraced my uncle's legacy – he'd never have stood for a barren drinks cabinet… ”

Less than thirty seconds later, he's giving James his best _hurry the fuck up_ look, already restless and raring to go.

“Are you going to sit around swotting all night then, or are we going to get smashed?”

James shunts his glasses up his nose, and shoves the book off his lap. The smile on his face feels too wide, too openly charmed to be at all cool, but he can't find it in him to care.

“I thought you'd never ask,” he says, settling a hand between Sirius' shoulder-blades as they head for the door. “Bet you fifty galleons I beat you to the bar.”

“Fifty?” Sirius shoots him a scornful backward glance. “You could at least make it interesting.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Forfeit,” says Sirius promptly. “Winner's choice.”

Alright, that _is_ more interesting. He feels suddenly charged and alert, that competitive spark lighting up his nervous system as he quickens his pace.

“Oh, yeah? You're on.”

He tries not to think too hard about blow jobs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He lost the bet – that much, he remembers. He lost the next one, too, though only because Sirius is a low-down dirty cheat, and he's pretty sure that was what got them thrown out of the first pub. He knows he won after that, and he knows he didn't mention oral sex at all, even though Sirius clearly specified _no limits,_ because he is a fucking gentleman, and a bastion of true chivalry in this degenerate modern age. He remembers some wannabe death eater taking issue with Sirius' trousers, a brawl that spilled out of the bar, dodging sloppy drunken jinxes as they ran through Knockturn Alley, and laughing so hard he was sick in a bin.

What he doesn't remember is how, or indeed why, he came to be in fucking Yorkshire, throwing pebbles at the darkened windows of Remus' horrible cottage.

“LUPIN!” Sirius bellows, hammering on the door yet again. “Let us in, you misbegotten bastard! If you don't open this bastard door in the next five seconds, I will shit all over your fucking bastard doorstep, I solemnly fucking swear -”

“I don't think he's in, Pads.”

“Where the fuck else would he be? Living la vida fucking loca with all his _other_ friends? Of course he's fucking _in –_ aren't you, Moony, you recalcitrant fuck!?”

“Don't be a dick,” James says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “And stop shouting at the house, you look like a bloody lunatic.”

“Don't you have a key or something?”

“No, I don't have a _key._ Why the fuck would I have a key?”

Sirius shrugs his hand off, and turns around to glare at him as if _he's_ the one asking bloody stupid questions.

“You pay the rent, you moron. You're practically his landlord. What kind of laissez-faire landlord doesn't even have a fucking key?”

“I'm not his _landlord,_ Sirius, for fuck's sake. Honestly, it's a good thing he's _not_ here, if you're just going to act like a cunt all night.”

The hard, manic gleam in Sirius' eyes intensifies, and James knows that look well enough to pre-empt the violent outburst, pulling him in for a hug that's at least half restraint hold. He keeps him there while he struggles, secure in the knowledge that escape is the last thing Sirius actually wants, whispering _hey_ and _shh_ and _easy now_ until he stops resisting.

“I'm not a fucking horse, you know.”

Sirius' belated objection comes out muffled and indistinct, every syllable a huff of damp heat against James' shoulder. His body is still humming with tension, pressed so close that James can feel his heartbeat through their clothes. Holding him is so unlike holding other people that James really does wonder sometimes if Sirius is something more than human - he feels more vividly present, more _alive,_ than anyone else he's ever touched.

“James?”

“Mm?”

“You can, uh - you can let go now.”

He's only half listening, absorbed by the soft, coarse-silk texture of Sirius' hair under his hand. There's a kind of almost-sober clarity that always reasserts itself when something needs doing, but it's slipping away with every second he spends like this, all his thoughts dissolving until sensation and impulse are all that remain.

“James?”

He seems to be stroking Sirius' hair. It feels good, so he keeps doing it, burrowing his fingers into that warm, inviting softness, and smiling to himself when the blunt drag of his nails makes Sirius shiver.

“This is getting weird, James.”

It's not weird, it's really nice, and it's patently obvious that Sirius thinks so, too. Refraining from pushing the whole blow job angle is one thing, but he's damned if he's going to hold himself back from a bit of perfectly innocent, mutually enjoyable touching just because Sirius has arbitrarily decided it's “weird” _._ He murmurs another _shh,_ and applies a little more pressure as his hand follows the curve of Sirius' skull down to the nape of his neck.

“Stop _shushing_ me,” Sirius grumbles into his cloak, squirming half heartedly. “And stop... you know. Stop _that_.”

James smothers a laugh in his hair. “Stop what, exactly?”

“You know what.”

“Nope, no idea, I'm afraid. You'll have to spell it out for me.”

“Whatever it is you think you're doing to my fucking hair, alright?”

“Oh, that?” James says innocently, coiling a thick sheaf of hair around his hand. “Fair enough, if it bothers you. Would you prefer something like this?”

He gives a short, firm tug on the final syllable, and Sirius makes this low, needy little noise that goes straight to his cock. He does it again immediately, harder this time, forcing Sirius' head up and away from his shoulder, heat surging through him at the sight of Sirius' flushed cheeks and wild, hooded eyes. It's just so _easy_ to do this to him - he gets so worked up over so little contact, and it's so fucking hot that James can't think straight. He kisses him, licking into his shocked, open mouth and sinking his teeth into the full curve of his slick lower lip. Sirius makes a cut off, desperate noise, and kisses back, fierce and eager and so intense that the world falls away. Their hips press closer, realigning, and James groans at the sudden, rough friction just where he needs it, the heat and hardness of Sirius' cock rubbing against his own through two layers of cloth. It's been so fucking long with nothing but his hand, and Sirius feels so fucking _good,_ and then that lovely mouth rips itself away from his and a violent shove sends him staggering backwards.

Knocked off balance and reeling from the sudden, senseless loss of contact, it takes him a second to process what's happening. Drunk on want as much as whisky, he feels blurred and muddled and fucking _bereft,_ and he can't quite get his head around the fact that he is actually, seriously expected to _stop._

“Back _off,_ James, I fucking swear -”

Sirius' hoarse, snarled warning stops him dead in his tracks. Fuck, he _means_ it. It's bullshit, and it makes no sense, but he does, he really means it.

“ _Why?”_

There's an almost _whiny_ note to the sound of his own voice that sets his teeth on edge. He's James fucking Potter, not some pathetic loser who's going to start begging for sex, least of all from someone who should, by all rights, be begging _him._ However much he wants this, however much he feels like promising the moon on a stick if Sirius will only let him rub one off against his fucking leg, he _knows_ that Sirius wants it even more.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

That's a bit more like it – less wretched, more righteously aggrieved.

“You weren't so fucking coy when you were sucking off that oversized freak last night – do I have to beat you up first, is that it? Do you need a fucking _audience,_ or – arrrgh!!”

Pain snuffs his sight out as he slams into a tree trunk on his way to the ground. He lands hard, hitting the grass in a crumpled heap of throbbing limbs, incapable of anything but wheezing and clutching his ribs for what feels like fucking forever. Tiny worms of light are still wriggling around in his field of vision when Sirius appears above him, glaring down unrepentantly with his wand trained on James' throat.

“Fucking _psycho,”_ James manages to grit out between painful, panting breaths. “You – fucking - ”

“Shut up,” Sirius spits, as contemptuous as if he were talking to Snape. “If you were anyone else I'd make you rip your own tongue out and feed it back to you piece by fucking piece. Speak to me like that one more fucking time and I'll do it anyway – I'm not so gone on you that I've got no limits, whatever you might think. You expect me to be so grateful that you haven't dropped me that I'll roll over and thank you for turning me into your new favourite joke? Ha ha, Sirius is a dirty cocksucking queer, what a brilliant laugh – didn't we cover this back at school?”

He feels like he's been thrown into another tree, staring like some mindless mute as Sirius spouts this hateful fucking garbage that insults them both so much that he's not sure he'll ever forgive him for it. He's too drunk for this – he can't make sense of anything, can't understand how all the brightness can go out of the world with so little warning.

“I thought you'd got it out of your system,” Sirius rants on, fraying more with every word, his hand shaking as he gestures with his wand. “I thought – you never had to see anything, you never had to _think_ about it, I made _sure,_ but that's not enough for you, is it? You've got to rub my fucking face in it, haven't you, because why not, right? What am I here for, if not to entertain you? I should be honoured, shouldn't I, to distract you from the midlife crisis you're having at fucking nineteen because for once in your life you actually _lost_ something? So you push and you pry and you get the proof you've always wanted, a proper fucking punchline, at last, and now you _know_ I'm beneath you, so why hold back? You're pissed and you want your ego stroking and I should be happy to – to fucking – to _humiliate_ myself for you, I should be _eager -”_

Sirius' voice breaks, and he throws his head back, laughing in this awful, sobbing, unhinged way that James would do pretty much anything to never hear again.

He should speak. He's making it worse by not speaking – he would never normally let Sirius talk himself into this kind of state. He would never give a misunderstanding so vast and toxic so much room to breathe. He would never, ever let this happen, and still, somehow, it is. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out - the truth seems to rot away on his tongue until there's nothing substantial enough for sound to latch onto. Every niggle of doubt he's dismissed in the last few months comes home to roost with a vengeance, bombarding him with the broken bits of everything he thought he could count on. Hindsight hardens suspicion into crushing drunken certainty, and it hits him like the end of the world -

_You don't trust me any more._

“Do you know what _I_ think is funny?”

 _Shut up,_ thinks James desperately, _shut up shut up shut up_

“Even funnier than the fact that it's been so long since you got laid that dry humping your pet faggot seemed like a passable way to get off? No, what really cracks _me_ up is -”

“That's _enough!”_

His voice is back, though it sounds like someone else's.

“One more fucking word – one more, and we're _done,_ do you hear me?”

He's on his feet, and his wand is in his hand, and he doesn't know what he's doing.

“You fucking _snake,_ ” his mouth is saying, without checking in with his mind. “I should have known – your whole family is poison, after all, why should you be any different?”

It's just sound, just angry white noise, until Sirius' expression collapses and reality snaps brutally back into focus, and it becomes, in an instant, the worst thing he's ever said.

_Oh fuck oh fuck I didn't mean it – you know I didn't mean it -_

“You -”

Sirius chokes on the word, and then he's laughing again, and he looks like a stranger, a copy of himself that came out wrong.

“Sirius -”

James reaches for him, and his hands close on nothing, and Sirius is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Monday arrives shrouded in mist, sneaking up on James as he waits outside the training centre swigging firewhisky disguised as bottled water and preparing his speech._
> 
>  
> 
> (wallowing, insomnia, separation anxiety, and a cameo appearance from Peter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings that I can think of for this chapter, unless you count James' ongoing flirtation with alcohol dependence.

  **5.**

 

 

Monday arrives shrouded in mist, sneaking up on James as he waits outside the training centre swigging firewhisky disguised as bottled water and preparing his speech.

It feels strange to practice for a conversation with Sirius. It's like rehearsing how to breathe, or agonizing over the precise sequence of muscle movements needed to take flight. He can't help it, though – every time he gives up and decides to just wing it, his mind circles back and starts reasoning with Sirius again, ransacking the dustiest and most obscure corners of his vocabulary in search of new ways to say _you're wrong._ He spends the long, chilly hour separating sunrise from the start of training rearranging stilted, ineloquent sentences in his head and dressing up the word _sorry_ in every intensifier he can come up with. None of them make it look any less weedy or small or inadequate, and around seven am, he decides he's going to need a new language, racking his addled brain for the snatches of French and Italian he knows are in there somewhere.

 _Je suis désolé -_ it definitely sounds more sorry than _sorry_ does, but he's fairly sure he'll laugh if he tries to say it out loud, however sincerely, soul-smashingly _désolé_ he actually does feel. On closer inspection, the Italian option turns out to be 'excuse me' pronounced in a vaguely Italian-y sort of way, which served him fine on holiday but isn't really going to cut it now. He gets nowhere with Spanish, dismisses German out of hand, and he's just looped back around to _forgive me_ when Sirius appears, startling him so much it's like he's never even heard of apparating. Gawking like some gobsmacked muggle, he misses his opening, and finds himself blurting _“No, wait -”_ at Sirius' back as the doors close between them.

For a moment he feels utterly lost, lead-footed and useless with dismay until he comes to his senses and remembers that they're going to the same bloody place. He's being stupid - Sirius can hardly hope to ignore him for long, when the biggest distance he can put between them for the next ten hours is the length of the dinner table. He'll get as many chances as he could possibly need to chip away at the shell of antipathy Sirius will have buried himself under, and work his way back under his skin. Even if they can't talk properly, he can say _sorry_ as many times as it takes to sink in, and by the end of the day, Sirius will definitely have said it back. He won't make him say it more than once, even though Sirius has essentially slandered him in the most hurtful and baseless way imaginable. No, once will be enough to neutralize this festering bitterness souring up his insides – one genuine apology, one retraction, one acknowledgement that he is not the malicious cunt that Sirius made him out to be, based on nothing more than a moment of glib curiosity at the age of seventeen. It'll have to be enough, because Sirius is both more upset and better at holding grudges than he is, as well as vastly less capable of taking the high road.

 _“_ Potter.”

_Oh, shit._

Pembleton blocks the corridor, a stony-faced pillar of judgement and disdain.

_Oh, shit, don't notice that I'm drunk._

_“_ You're drunk.”

 _“Shit –_ oh, fuck, I mean no, sir -”

 _“Everybody!”_ booms Pembleton. “Gather 'round – Potter has something he'd like to say to us all.”

Sirius and the others crowd into the corridor. Fuck, this is bad. He's never known Pembleton summon a fucking _audience_ before. The girls exchange curious glances, Bones looks annoyingly sympathetic, and Sirius leans against the wall and picks at his nails like he's _bored_ by the prospect of James' imminent bollocking.

 _“_ Uh... sir?”

 _“_ Yes, Potter? What are you waiting for?”

 _“_ What did you, uh... what exactly is it you want me to say?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” says Pembleton, and James wishes he would just get to the part with the shouting already. “I want you to explain to your peers why it is that you think you're better than they are.”

The sinkhole in his gut sucks harder, and his palms begin to sweat. Why this, why now, why today? It's not fair, he's too fucking drunk for this, he just wants to lie down and be sick and not be awake any more.

 _“_ I don't, sir.”

 _“_ Oh, really? You don't, _sir?_ Then tell me, Potter, why are you _pissing_ in their _fucking faces_?”

 _“_ Sir?”

 _“_ Answer the question, Potter.”

 _“_ Look, sir, I'm sorry, I just wasn't thinking, I didn't mean to piss on anyone's face or anything, I just had a bad night -”

 _“_ A _bad night?_ ”

 _“_ Yes, sir. Really bad.”

 _“_ Do you know how long I've been doing this job, Potter?”

Finally, a question he can answer.

 _“_ Fifteen years, sir.”

 _“_ That's right, Potter, fifteen years. And in all those years, do you know how many times I have had a trainee come in _drunk_?”

He stays quiet, unable to force out another “ _sir”_ without it starting to sound _really_ sarcastic. Pembleton doesn't need his cue lines anyway – better to nod solemnly every now and then, and just let it all wash over him. It has to end eventually.

 _“_ The answer is _none_ – not once, in fifteen years. People have come in hungover, and people have failed to come in at all, but not one other person has had so little respect for me, or for their future colleagues, that they showed up three sheets to the wind and expected to get _away_ with it. Now tell me, Potter, do you think that you're the first to have had a _bad fucking night?”_

He shakes his head, letting his gaze drift surreptitiously over to Sirius, who's still just lounging there with apparent indifference, not even bothered that this is at least half his fault.

 _“_ Get out.”

_“What?”_

His eyes snap back to Pembleton's, searching for the bluff.

 _“_ You heard me, Potter. Consider yourself suspended.”

 _“Suspended?_ But you _can't –_ this is bullshit – it's one fucking mistake! I can sober up in ten seconds, it doesn't mean _anything -_ ”

 _“_ You have exactly one minute to get out of my sight before I make it permanent.”

This can't be happening. He's got to be dreaming - he would never fuck this up, not _this_ , not for anything. Why isn't Sirius stopping this, why has he not intervened? He would never let James get _suspended_ without speaking so much as a word in his defence, surely he wouldn't – they're always in this kind of trouble together.

Pembleton checks his watch with a pointed look, and James abandons thought and dignity and reasoned argument, and bolts for the exit like the building's on fire.

 

 

* * *

 

He writes to his dad, then writes again, telling him not to get involved. It feels like the grown up thing to do at the time, but by Wednesday afternoon the glow of maturity and independence is seriously starting to fade. He writes another letter, imagines his dad's eyebrow going up, and stuffs it in his pocket to be dealt with later.

It's been more than forty-eight hours since he saw Sirius – it's like the stubborn bastard is so intent on avoiding him that he's moved out of his own fucking flat, and when James tried waiting for him outside the centre on Tuesday, he pulled his trademark vanishing act before James could get so much as a word in. Finding him in Hackney has proved weirdly impossible; the password has changed and the red door never seems to open, and the street they came out in when they left by the back door yields no sign of an entrance. It's the longest they've ever gone without speaking, and every record-breaking minute of it feels like trying to breathe with half a pair of lungs.

When he puts his fist through his bedroom door, it becomes clear that he can't stay here without Sirius. It's not his flat, after all, and he's starting to feel like it's judging him. Every creaking floorboard sounds accusatory now, every squeaking hinge an unsubtle reminder that he's the one responsible for its proper owner's absence.

He packs a bag and leaves a series of notes scattered around the flat that range in tone from FORGIVE ME??to a picture of a cock with the simple caption _(you)._ He makes sure to write Peter's address on all of them, just in case Sirius happens to fancy stopping by for any reason at all, and detours via the training centre to announce his departure in person. Sirius disapparates the second he steps out the door, and that sour, resentful feeling soaks up this fresh rejection like some kind of evil sponge.

 _“_ Potter?”

Meadowes' worried little face peers up at him, and he forces a smile.

 _“_ Hello, gorgeous.” He hugs her, and she tips up on her toes to return it, despite her evident surprise. “How much do you miss me?”

“A lot less than I would if you ever actually left,” she says, pulling away. “I saw you yesterday, remember?”

“Of course I do,” he lies easily. “That’s plenty of time to work up a bit of yearning if you really put your mind to it.”

She smiles like she feels sorry for him, which is not at all what he was going for. Why are people always so bad at reading him when he’s had a few drinks? Does his face do something weird he’s not aware of?

“How are you holding up?”

 _“_ Oh, you know,” he says, shrugging. “I try to look at it more as a holiday. What are you lot up to?”

 _“_ Nothing fun, I promise. Just disguises and stuff.”

Oh, great, of course. He fucking loves disguises.

 _“_ Looks like I picked a good time, then.”

 _“_ Yeah, I know - imagine if you'd missed out on surprise rules test week.”

 _“_ Doesn't bear thinking about,” he says, mock-shuddering. “So Pembleton hasn't dropped any hints about having me back?”

 _“_ Not to me, but you know what he's like. It won't be too long.”

_It's already been too fucking long._

_“_ Potter!” exclaims Robbins, appearing through the doorway and sparing him the trouble of finding something cheerful to say. “Fancy seeing you here – are you stalking Black again, or what?”

James grits his teeth, not really in the mood for her exuberant tactlessness just at the moment.

 _“_ I'm not _stalking_ him. I just need to tell him something, that's all.”

 _“_ Don't you two live together?”

 _“_ Apparently not any more.”

 _“_ Ooh, how come?”

 _“_ Leave it, Bobby,” interjects Meadowes sternly, before James can really lose his rag. “We should go, but – look, d'you want me to give him a message, Potter?”

 _“_ No, thanks,” he says, then thinks about it. “Actually, yeah, would you mind?”

 _“_ As long as it's not anything that's going to set him off. He had a real go at me the other day just for saying your name.”

 _Ha!_ thinks James triumphantly. _I knew you'd be losing it – I knew you couldn't cope with this any more than I can._

 _“_ What a wanker,” he says, aiming for sympathetic rather than blatantly pleased. “I'll punch him, if you like.”

Robbins rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I bet you will.”

 _“_ What's that supposed to mean?”

 _“_ Never mind that,” says Meadowes hastily. “What's this message?”

 _“_ Just tell him I'm staying with Peter, so he can have his precious flat back. Tell him I'm ready to talk if he wants to apologize - oh, and tell him to ignore the notes. Except the one with the knob. Tell him the one with the knob sums up my position better than mere words ever could.”

 _“_... right. I might just... do the first bit? Peter, you said?”

 _“_ Yeah,” he says. “Thanks, Meadowes.”

 _“_ No problem. You'll buy me a drink if he bites my head off?”

 _“_ I'll buy you two just for taking the chance. We can do it now, if you like.”

 _“_ Sorry, Potter, I've got dibs,” says Robbins, looping her arm through Meadowes'. “We've got a date with a litter of puppies, and I don't want to miss all the good ones.”

 _“_ You can come, if you like,” Meadowes offers. “It might cheer you up a bit.”

 _“_ That's alright,” he says quickly, trying not to seem to obviously irked by her pity. “I've got a dog, anyway.”

 _“_ You have?” Robbins' eyes go button-round and curious. “What kind?”

Why did he have to say that? This is the last thing he wants to talk about right now. The wine he had for breakfast is sloshing around unpleasantly in his empty stomach, and he feels weirdly seasick, like the concrete is swaying subtly under his feet.

 _“_ Come on, Bobby,” says Meadowes, tugging on her arm. “We need to get in there before my Aunt's lot arrive, or there won't be any left. See you when you're de-suspended, Potter – we'll have that drink.”

 _“_ Yeah,” he says, giving her the most charming smile he can muster. “Any day now. Good luck with your puppy quest, Robbins.”

She waves at him over her shoulder, already dragging Meadowes away. He watches them lean into one another, sharing a laugh, and he feels like he's swallowed a ghost – this invading rush of coldness that plunges through him with far too much force for something totally formless.

_I need a drink._

He follows the thought like the beam on a lighthouse, ploughing through the icy fog towards this one bright point of purpose. He's fine - all he needs is a glass of firewhisky; a clear, achievable goal.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pete is as gratifyingly pleased to put him up as James knew he would be - solicitous and sympathetic almost to a fault. He fusses round the kitchen, making dinner while James puts his feet up and monologues about uptight tyrants and mad, capricious bastards, agreeing that Sirius has always been a bit unstable as he presents him with a mountain of spaghetti bolognese.

 _“_ A _bit?”_ James protests around a mouthful of pasta. _“_ Come on, mate, you can speak freely now – he's a fucking head-case, he always has been.”

Peter laughs, and tops up their glasses with a much-welcome splash of the fancy firewhisky James brought with him as a thanks-for-having-me present.

 _“_ My dad did used to say all Blacks come out a bit, you know -” he makes the universal gesture for 'touched in the head'.

 _“_ Hey, fuck off,” James snaps, glaring at him. “He's nothing like those fucking psychopaths – you can tell your dad he's full of shit, alright? Tell him I'll punch his fucking false teeth out if he goes round insulting my friends -”

 _“_ He didn't! I just mean – it's, it's just a thing, you know, that p-people say -”

James flops back into the depths of the sofa, annoyed and a little bit guilty.

 _“_ I know,” he says, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand and trying not to indicate how incredibly tiresome he finds Wormtail's tendency towards panic. “Sorry, Pete – it's this fucking suspension, I'm not myself at the moment.”

 _“_ No, no, don't worry about it.” Peter laughs nervously. “Um, please don't punch my dad?”

 _“_ Of course I won't – poor old bugger, he'd probably _die.”_

 _“_ How old do- do you think he _is,_ James?”

 _“_ How should I know? As old as time itself, I'd imagine.”

Peter's laugh is a bit less shrill this time. “He's only just turned sixty!”

Satisfied that the situation is handled, James returns to the important business of lining his stomach.

 _“_ Your dad is old enough to be my dad's dad,” he says after several minutes of companionable eating, just to make sure that Pete's alright. “Hey, if your dad was my dad's dad, what would that make us?”

Peter gives the question considerably more thought than it warrants, mulling it over with a contemplative sip of firewhisky. “I'd be your uncle – is that right? That doesn't sound right.”

 _“_ Aw, don't say that, I'm sure you'd make a lovely uncle. I can picture it now – dear old Uncle Wormsy, that’s what I’d call you, and I’d sit on your nice soft lap to receive your avuncular wisdoms… ”

Peter chokes on his drink, spluttering with laughter. He's so easily pleased, bless him – coming here was an excellent choice. The world might be coming apart at the seams, but he can always count on Pete for a healthy dose of appreciation and mostly-easy company.

 _“_ What would I call you?”

 _“_ You'd call me Little Wee Jamie, just like any proper uncle would.”

 _“_ You'd kill me if I tried to call you that,” protests Peter, cracking up again. “Your uncles didn't _really -?”_

 _“_ Of course not, you spanner – do I look like the sort of man who'd stand for that? Mostly they just called me Trouble.”

 _“_ You know my uncle Rupert always used c-call me Ratty? I'm not sure he even knew I had a real name.”

 _“_ What a cock – still, joke's on him, right?” James swipes up a smudge of leftover sauce with his thumb, and stretches out on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh of satiation. “That was top notch, mate, thanks. First decent meal I've had since Padfoot tried to bribe me with a fry up last month.”

He wishes he hadn't brought that up. He was just starting to relax, and now his mind is flooding with images of Sirius – eyes shut and hands held behind his back, saying _hit me_ like it's something obvious – throwing him his brilliant new broom – by his side in the night sky, laughing and elated and so fucking lovely that even the memory is blinding.

 _“_ I didn't know he could cook,” says Peter, banishing their plates to the sink with a distracted wave of his wand. “I mean, he doesn't seem like...”

 _“_ He can do everything, can't he?” James says, and wants to kick himself in the teeth for how wistful it sounds. “Except think before he opens his fucking stupid mouth, obviously. Oh, and cleaning up after himself. And saying ‘sorry’ properly, and listening to reason, and not being a total fucking wanker who won’t even _talk_ to me...”

 _“_ What did he do?” Peter asks, and there's an eager edge to his voice that James doesn't quite like. “Was it his fault you got, um.... ?”

 _“_ No, of course not. I mean, yeah, a bit, but not really. He just – I don't know, Pete. He thinks I'm a cunt.”

 _“_ Doesn't he call you, um... doesn't he do that quite a lot?”

 _“_ Hardly ever, actually,” James says, ambushed by a ridiculous rush of affection as he considers Sirius' keen understanding of the great insult hierarchy. “But I don't mean he _said_ it, I mean he honestly thinks I am one. He thinks I... fuck, look, I don't want to talk about it, alright?”

 _“_ Alright,” says Pete in this tentative, worried way that suggests that James' face is doing something extraordinarily pathetic just at the moment. “You know you're _not,_ you know, obviously -”

 _“_ Yeah, of course _I_ do, that's not the point, is it? I appreciate the vote of confidence and all that, but I don't need a fucking pep talk, I need _him_ to come to his senses.”

 _“_ Sorry, I didn't mean to... ”

 _“_ Oh for fuck's sake - don't _apologize -”_

 _“_ S-sorry.”

James wrestles with the urge to throw up his hands and just refuse to engage with him until he grows himself a spine, or at the very least some thicker fucking skin.

 _“_ Look, I'm not pissed off with _you_ , alright? I'm just not in the mood for – I don't know, for anything, if I'm honest. I think I'll just lie down for a bit.”

 _“_ Oh,” says Peter, crestfallen. “Well, alright – if you're sure, I mean, it's only eight o'clock, I can – we can talk about something else... ”

 _“_ Nah, it's not you, mate. I've not slept a wink since Monday. It's that bastard flat, you know, it's got it in for me now. Trust him to have a fucking moody _house,_ right?”

 _“_ Um. Right.”

Hauling himself upright is unexpectedly challenging, but he gets there in the end, blinking hard to clear the weird, wet blur from his vision. He knocks his shin on Peter's stupid glass coffee table, cursing explosively though he hardly even feels it. Why is the damn thing there, why is it in his way, why is everything so fucking _difficult?_ Hardly anything is ever difficult – certainly not standing, or talking, or any other basic human functions.

 _“_ A-are you – can I, um, can I do anything?”

_Snap out of it, Potter. You're an Auror, for fuck's sake._

Except he's not, is he? Right now, he's not even a fucking trainee. He's stuck in this wretched limbo, this inverted fucked up non-world where nothing works the way it's supposed to, and he can't even be sure that he's Sirius Black's best friend.

 _“_ Um, James?”

This is neither the time nor the place to start having an existential crisis. There is, he's pretty sure, no good time to have an existential anything. He forces his eyes to focus on Peter's twitchy, anxious face, and produces something that feels close enough to a smile. Clapping him on the shoulder rather harder than he means to, he plucks the bottle of firewhisky out of Peter's slack grip.

 _“_ I'm fine, Pete. I'll just borrow this and get out of your hair until I feel a bit more human, yeah?”

One foot in front of the other, that's right, no problem. He's been doing it since he was three, how hard can it fucking be? Peter is saying something, but it won't be important – a quick, backward wave of his hand will do to acknowledge whatever it is. Tomorrow, he'll be nicer – tomorrow, he'll be himself again. He'll even ask Pete about his fucking boring work, and they'll have a good laugh about school, and he'll stop thinking the kind of thing that he's been telling Sirius not to say since poor old Wormtail first stuttered his name out on the train. It's not Peter's fault if he's a bit over-eager to please sometimes, a bit nervous and grating and – no, not spineless, that was unkind. That was Sirius' fault, the spiky, intolerant bastard, just like it's his fault that all James can't stand to be around anyone right now, that the whole world just seems like this undifferentiated, irritating mess of things that are Not Sirius.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The mattress he lands on is too soft, and not quite thick enough, and the hope of instant oblivion dies after a couple of minutes of squirming. It's like lying on a tongue – what kind of a bed is this to give a guest? He adds a word of friendly advice regarding home furnishings to the list of nice things he'll do for Peter in the morning, and works his shoes off with his feet, propping himself up just enough to drink without choking. Enough firewhisky will make any sentient being fall asleep, surely, even if it has failed to work its magic for three days fucking straight now. He feels a pang of longing for the time before Lily left him, when everything made sense and he thought insomnia was a hysteric's complaint, a figment in the minds of people too finicky and high-strung just to knuckle down and go the fuck to sleep. How was he supposed to know that an otherwise first-rate and reliable brain could turn on him like this? He always slept like a log until his perfect, golden future got ripped out at the roots like some weed that was stifling Lily's fucking growth, and suddenly, he couldn't sleep at all. It's been ages, though, since he got past that stage, and he's been sleeping well enough for long enough that he'd forgotten just how _stretched_ it makes him feel, strung-out and peeling at the edges. He can get through thirty hours or so with no problem – he's done it loads of times for no other reason than that he was having a good time and didn't fancy stopping. It's only when he _can't_ stop that there's any kind of problem; when he can't choose, can't draw the line at thirty six and wake up starving twelve hours later; when the days lose their outlines and every thought fizzles out like a failed spell.

_You got through it last time._

The thought is a husk, an empty bit of language that dissolves into dust under the weight of its inevitable counter -

_Last time, Sirius was there._

He doesn't want to remember that, not now. He takes his glasses off, which is stupid, because of course it doesn't blur the fucking _past,_ does it?

There's this particular point where sleep deprivation turns Sirius' eyes all silvery, where all the bones in his face seem to sharpen and he looks like his spirit might burn its way out of his skin.

_Stop it. Just stop, now._

His head bumps against Peter's stupid padded headboard, the impact too cushioned and soft to do any good. Fuck, this is awful. How is he supposed to stay angry with someone who gave up the best part of six days sleep for him without the slightest hesitation? He couldn't have been around anyone else that week; he would have shattered Peter, alienated Remus, upset his mum, and driven his dad to distraction. He's not sure he could have been around himself without Sirius there as a buffer, and surely Sirius knows what it meant, what he has and will always mean to him, what James would do to repay him just for existing?

He reaches into his pocket for Sirius' cigarettes, nicked in a fit of spite that seized him on the way out the door, and the serrated edge of the old two-way mirror scrapes against the pad of his thumb, a tiny stinging scratch. He takes it out, turning and tilting it so it catches the light from the candle. It won't do any good – he's been trying all week to no avail. Fuck knows when Sirius learned to ignore the signal, because he never could at school. Earlier on, James kept taking it out and putting it away just to bother Sirius with the little flashes of tingling heat the charm sends to their ears. That was their favourite game for about a week back in fifth year, and Sirius was _always_ the one to crack first, to show his face in the glass and shout “ _what!?”_

 _“_ How could you even practice that?” he asks the mirror, accusingly. “You'd need _me_ to practice ignoring me, and we haven't used this in ages.”

The glass gleams blankly back at him. There's this sticky mass in his throat that's slurring his words and making it hard to swallow his whisky. His eyes are wet again, and blinking doesn't help this time, nor does the press of his knuckles or the rough drag of his sleeve.

 _“_ Where are you, you bastard?” he says, and then, half choking on it - “Sirius, _please.”_

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There's no light behind the living room window, but the flat isn't empty – he can feel it when his key turns in the lock, and his heart rolls over as the door swings open. The murky expanse of the living room is utterly devoid of Sirius-shaped life, but something does move when he steps inside – a shadow by the sofa that's achingly familiar even at first glance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the lovely comments and to any kudos-givers. No warnings again for this one - James doesn't even drink very much.

  **6.**

 

 

He must have fallen asleep in the end, because he has the distinct displeasure of waking up four hours later to a silent house and a stomach-churning, hook-in-the-forebrain hangover that keeps him limp on the couch like a Victorian invalid until the sun rises and Peter scurries off to earn his crust.

It takes half of what's left of the firewhisky just to take the edge off, and as the day wears on, his good intentions evaporate in a miasma of boredom and inertia, leaving him snappy and short-fused by the time Peter gets back. He makes it halfway through dinner before snapping, slamming his way out the door like bloody bastard Sirius, and wasting yet another evening on the undeserving streets of Hackney, failing to find a way in. He spends the night in one-sided conversation with an empty mirror, and repeats the process, with the minor added variation of puking in one of Peter's droopy pot plants on his way to the misery cave he's made of his spare room.

By Saturday, the unthinkable has happened – Peter is actually sick of him. Not in any lasting sense, of course, but almost certainly quite sick of having him around the house. While it comes a fairly hefty surprise that Peter could even conceive of not wanting his company, James can't exactly hold it against him. This side of him is no part of what Peter signed up for, and there must be something kind of depressing about having your hero and role model fall apart on your too-small sofa. Still, it is a bit much to expect him to entertain anyone when he's having what may well be the worst week of his entire life. It wouldn't kill Pete to be a bit less relentlessly fucking needy, to give him more space, or less, or to do whatever it is he's not doing that would make James feel better about all of this.

When he slips out at dawn and heads straight for the flat, he tells himself that he's checking for post. Never mind that he's sent Guinevere round there to search for his de-suspension letter so many times that she actually bit him and flew off in a huff, despite being the sweetest, gentlest owl he's ever met. She could have missed something, after all – it's probably hard to search properly when you're just an owl and don't even have any thumbs.

There's no light behind the living room window, but the flat isn't empty – he can feel it when his key turns in the lock, and his heart rolls over as the door swings open. The murky expanse of the living room is utterly devoid of Sirius-shaped life, but something does move when he steps inside – a shadow by the sofa that's achingly familiar even at first glance.

 _“_ Padfoot!”

He must look like an idiot, dropping to his knees and laughing with giddy relief when Padfoot bounds over to greet him with enough enthusiasm to bowl him right over. He buries his fingers in shaggy black fur and presses their foreheads together, smiling so hard his face feels like it might split. Padfoot is solid and warm and unabashedly delighted to see him, and James has really, really missed him, and it's alright to say so as many times as he wants, because no dog ever got embarrassed or told a man he was being soft.

 _“_ I missed you,” he says again, just because he can. “You missed me too, didn't you, boy?”

Padfoot licks his face, and James laughs, playing at pushing his head away and then hauling him close again, rubbing his wet cheek into Padfoot's neck and scratching him vigorously behind the ears.

 _“_ Yeah,” he grins into soft, dark fur. “ _You_ still love me, don't you?”

Padfoot growls contentedly, a sound James is positive is canine for _I love you most out of anyone no matter what._

 _“_ Yeah,” he says, half laughing again at his own daft, oversized happiness. “Yeah, me too.”

He stays like that for what might well be hours; keeping track of time when he's not slept for so long feels like crawling through a desert cupping desperately at handfuls of sand, trying to examine every grain for some difference, some marker of progress even as the whole sodding lot of it slips through his fingers. There's no need for that now, no need to scrabble around in search of boundaries to break up the endless stretch of another day with nothing to do. He doesn't need to _do_ anything, not right now. There's nowhere else he needs to be, and now that he's warm and still and his insides have stopped crawling with loneliness, he finds that he's too tired to even get bored. After a while, the wooden floor becomes unaccommodating enough that he rouses himself out of his contented semi-stupor for long enough to sprawl out on their blessedly long sofa, and Padfoot follows at his heels, nudging his way under James' arm and laying down half on top of him like a big, heavy blanket.

For the first time since Sunday, he's actually, properly _comfortable._ His eyelids feel heavy, scrunched and strange from lack of sleep, and his vision fuzzes and melts away into darkness.

 _“_ M'sorry,” he mumbles, curling his fingers deeper into Padfoot's warm, soft coat as his mind drifts and scatters, his thoughts turning floaty and weightless.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Padfoot stays with him all weekend, through long, blissful stretches of sleep and the bursts of energy and purpose that punctuate them; keeping him warm while he dozes on the sofa, running wild when they make a trip to Diagon Alley, and curling up companionably close while he drafts and discards a whole sheaf of letters to Pembleton. James burns bacon for the two of them every couple of hours, transfigures a litter tray out of one of Sirius' shoes, and generally tries to behave as if it's never even crossed his mind to wonder when he's going to get the human version of his best mate back.

It's not that it bothers him, exactly. There's nothing not to like about hanging out with Padfoot, who is by far the best and cleverest beast that ever there was, and he's always thought it was quite brilliant of Sirius to end up with an animagus form that allows him to fulfil - albeit intermittently - James' childhood dream of being friends with a special magic dog. There's nothing else in the world that's comforting in quite the same way as Padfoot's playful, affectionate company; if he felt so raw and off-kilter for any other reason, he might even have asked this of Sirius, like he sometimes used to in those first few Lily-free months. It's an undeniable relief, too, to know that the core of Sirius that Padfoot represents is untouched by this sudden, strange blight on their friendship. That unquestioning allegiance is still in there somewhere, and Sirius must want him to know it; in and of itself, that's enough to reset the dislocated joint in his self-image, to let him feel like _himself_ again. Things aren't so bad – certainly there's nothing about the situation that he can't handle, now he's had a bit of rest and got his head straightened out. He won't stay suspended for long, and he feels a lot better about the whole business after finishing a letter he can actually send to Pembleton without either embarrassing himself or guaranteeing his immediate expulsion. He reads it aloud to Padfoot, who barks his endorsement, and nuzzles at his hand in a distinctly sheepish sort of way.

 _“_ Hey, it's okay,” James tells him, stroking his head absent-mindedly as he watches Guinevere disappear into the clouds with his message. “It's not your fault the other you is a faithless bastard who turned his back on me in my hour of need.”

Padfoot whines dejectedly and hangs his head, which makes him feel immediately and overwhelmingly like the worst person ever to walk the Earth.

 _“_ Don't look at me like that, come on. Of course I don't actually blame you. I should never have got so pissed I couldn't hide it, should I? Nothing you could've done about it, short of getting yourself suspended in a show of solidarity. Which, you know, I'm not saying I wouldn't have appreciated the gesture, but probably for the best that you didn't, eh?”

It feels odd to talk to Padfoot like this; he's never really been joking about being incapable of holding anything Sirius does against his canine counterpart, never spoken to one like he's half addressing the other. It's not just because he's not sure that Sirius even properly remembers the things he hears as Padfoot, or because it would be a bit weird to call Sirius 'boy', but because they're fundamentally distinct, if inseparable, creatures. Padfoot can't even conceive of disguising the fact that James' approval is the axis on which his world turns; he probably finds Sirius' recent actions as incomprehensible as James does, since he lacks the intricate layers of ego and damage and contradictory impulse that presumably gave rise to them. It doesn't seem fair to either of them to blur the line that divides them in his head, and it would be the most cowardly sort of cop out to make his case to a version of Sirius that can't answer back, and this is the problem, isn't it? As comfortable and steadying as all of this is, they need to actually _talk._

 _“_ Padfoot... ”

Dark, mournful eyes look up at him, crumbling his resolve. Damn it, his soft spot for that bloody dog must be visible from space – it's daft, but he just can't do it, can't ask for Sirius when he'd feel like he was rejecting Padfoot, like he was telling him that he's not welcome until their row is resolved.

 _“_ Don't worry about all that,” he says, crouching to give Padfoot a consoling hug. “We'll talk about it when you change, alright?”

Padfoot growls agreeably and burrows closer, and they say no more about it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He falls asleep on the sofa some time past midnight, and his subconscious treats him to a grand adventure in which he rides a huge white horse through the streets of Hackney, and rescues Sirius from a beaming giant who has locked him up in a hidden basement underneath his ex-parents' ugly, evil house. Though the details are different every time, he's had versions of this dream since he was thirteen – there is always a horse, and a sword, and a cage, and every time, without fail, Sirius shakes his chains just as James goes to free him, laughs in the same way and says the same thing;

_“Do I look like I need your help?”_

It's a good dream, and he's not best pleased to have it punctured by a high, insistent hooting sound just as his imaginary Sirius steps out of his cage, stark naked and bleeding from the mouth.

 _“_ Nnn,” he mumbles into a mouthful of sofa cushion, flailing an arm at the intrusive noise. “I don't have to... go away... ”

Guinevere hoots indignantly, and drops a letter on his face, snapping him out of his doze and into full alertness. Bolt upright in the space of a heartbeat, he tears at the seal he's been waiting all fucking week to see, punching the air with a triumphant whoop it's probably lucky that no one is around to hear.

_07:00._

_Arrive early and sober, and we will see._

_IP_

He looks at the clock – it's thirteen minutes to seven – and grins as he springs off the sofa.

_Ten minutes counts as early, right?_

 

 

* * *

 

At half past seven, he blunders out of Pembleton's office, clumsy with elation and still reeling from the barrage of threats that concluded his welcome-back bollocking. The others are waiting in the corridor and they gather around him in a noisy, excitable cluster that excludes the person he most wants to tell, who hangs back against the wall like he doesn't even want to be there.

 _“_ Well?” demands Robbins, tugging at his sleeve. “Come on, don't keep us in suspense -”

In other circumstances he would do exactly that, but he can't keep the grin off his face, ruining his own revelation with an excess of giddy relief.

 _“_ I knew it! You jammy bastard, you can get away with _anything -”_

He flings an arm around her shoulders and lays a smacking kiss on her temple that makes her giggle even as she pretends to retch.

 _“_ Try not to sound too happy for me, Robbins.”

 _“_ Oh, I'm happy for _you,”_ she laughs, dragging Meadowes in to make it a group hug. “I'm just sorry for the rest of us.”

 _“_ Nice work, Potter,” Meadowes says, all sweet and sincere, and he squeezes her a bit closer, kissing the top of her head just in case she feels left out.

He doesn't mean to lock eyes with Sirius – he means to smile and clap Bones on the shoulder, to respond to his perfectly affable congratulations in an appropriately friendly and non-jealous sort of way. He doesn't mean to make it look like he's putting on some kind of show with the girls – he's just happy, for fuck's sake. Can't he just be happy without Sirius getting that look on his face like he's adding bricks to the wall he's built between them right in front of James' eyes?

 _“Don't,”_ he wants to say, but how can he? Sirius will only act like he doesn't know what he's talking about, and even if he's shutting off more with every passing second, at least he's _here._ Human and gorgeous and sharing his space - albeit from the totally alien distance of more than two feet away – and James can't bear to say anything that might change that, just at the moment.

Robbins and Meadowes peel away from his side, already whispering to one another and teasing Bones about the way he says _“good show”_ which apparently strikes them both equally as being totally absurd. They might as well fall off the face of the earth when Sirius pushes off the wall in this languid, _if-I-must_ sort of way and saunters forward into touching range. He looks red and raw around the eyes, but his expression is shuttered and blank as he sticks his hand out.

 _“_ Congratulations.”

It's cold enough to burn, and the crack in James' happiness gapes suddenly wide, an irreparable fuck-off massive hole that ruins the whole thing. He stares blankly at Sirius' steady, long-fingered hand, incapable of parsing the invitation at all. They've _never_ shaken hands, not once – they were racing the length of the train before they got around to shouting their names at one another, ankles hooking and shoulders barging and hands tugging at robes, past the point of shaking hands before it ever had a chance to arrive. Sirius' knuckles are scabbed up and purple with bruising like he's been picking fights with walls again, and his face is still this perfect mask that James can't read at all, not even enough to know if this is meant as the snub it feels like or some kind of fucked up truce.

 _“_ Fine,” says Sirius, colder than cold now, turning away. “I was only being polite.”

 _“_ No – wait - ” James grabs his arm, fingers clutching desperately tight. “I didn't mean – _Sirius,_ come on, you know I didn't -”

Sirius doesn't jerk away like he might have expected, doesn't even _fight_ him, just looks at James' hand on his arm like it's the fucking dark mark – so utterly, impossibly, unbearably _disgusted_ that his own fingers betray him, recoiling from the contact on horrified reflex.

 _“_ No,” he says, his mind gone blank and useless. “Sirius, no -”

 _“_ Black.”

It's hard and final and there is no way James is having it. He's not just going to stand here this time, not just going to stare and stumble and let him leave without a fight.

 _“_ Sirius,” he says, low and deliberate, reaching out again.

This time Sirius does pull away from his hand – this tiny fraction of a flinch that makes furious self-disgust flash behind his eyes before he gets his mask back up.

 _“_ Potter!”

Pembleton's voice makes him jump halfway out of his skin, deafeningly loud and alarmingly close.

 _“_ Are you making trouble already?”

_Not now, for fuck's sake! Fuck off, fuck off, fuck OFF!_

Biting painfully deep into his tongue to prevent himself from telling Pembleton what a colossal moment-smashing fucking cunt he is, he forces himself to turn around.

 _“_ Absolutely not, sir.”

 _“_ And you, Black?”

 _“_ Why would _I_ be making trouble?”

Pembleton's mouth actually twitches a little bit, which is completely fucking unfair – Sirius didn't even call him _sir,_ and he gets the Pembleton equivalent of an indulgent, fatherly smile? Why is it somehow all fun and games for Sirius to be insubordinate and frequently disruptive, to come in bruised and hungover every other day, while James gets _suspended_ over one tiny little error in judgement?

A nasty, suspicious, unworthy part of his brain conjures up an image of Sirius on his knees under Pembleton's desk. It's bullshit, and he knows it is – he's just not used to anyone liking Sirius better than they do him, or to the casual, easy way that Sirius accepts Pembleton's authority, when he's always been the one least able to reign in his rebellious tendencies or respect the teachings of his elders. It's just one of those things that's remained low-key weird – something that runs against the grain of the old Hogwarts status quo, which can be a bit jarring in a place that often feels almost stiflingly like an extension of school. It's absolutely not evidence of some torrid fucking affair, and yet the idea infects him with this mad, unreasoning bitterness that sours what could have been a truly glorious morning spent disguising himself as a series of increasingly outlandish yet context-appropriate objects.

They're in Room 6, which he's always wanted to see inside, shape-shifting rapidly to match the whiplash changes in environment – one minute the room is a stuffy old library, and the next they're impersonating craters on the surface of the moon. It's just what he needs - a fast-paced proper _challenge_ to dust off the cobwebs and get his mind moving at its proper speed again. It's brilliant, really it is, except that every time they pause for feedback, Pembleton looks at Sirius, or says _“not bad, Black,”_ or points out a flaw in an overambitious disguise, and Sirius ducks his head, and smiles, and nods like he's actually listening, and this vein in James' temple starts pulsing fit to burst, his nails cutting red crescent grooves into the palms of his hands that are still there by lunch time.

Pembleton is not the only one Sirius is making nice with, either. On their way to the canteen, he watches him tousle Bones' hair, joking around and focusing intensely on him for no fucking reason whatsoever, except to rub James' face in the fact that he's getting the cold-shoulder while everyone else gets an admittedly strained impersonation of Sirius at his charming, lovable best.

Sirius takes a seat on the opposite side of the group from him, not even having the basic decency to skulk off down the other end of the table and avoid him properly. James stares at him until he gets a flicker of eye contact, then jerks his head meaningfully towards the door. Sirius meets his gaze for a single expressionless beat, then turns carelessly away, whispering something to Bones that makes his eyes dart over to James in this furtive, _gossipy_ way as a smile tugs at his thin lips. Unnecessarily close to Bones' weird goblin ear, Sirius' mouth moves again, and Bones stifles a scandalized laugh.

 _Oh, fuck you, too,_ thinks James. _You fucking brat - I can't believe I was actually worried about you._

If Sirius thinks he's going to stand for even a second more of this crap now that they've got an hour off duty, he's got another think fucking coming.

 _“_ Oi, _Black,”_ he says loudly, getting to his feet. “Outside, come on.”

Sirius doesn't even look at him, doesn't even _blink._

 _“_ Come on,” James repeats, ignoring the stares from the others. “Man the fuck up, already.”

He's shocked when it doesn't get a rise – he'd thought it was basically foolproof, but the twitch of a muscle in Sirius' jaw is all the reaction he gets.

 _“_ Do you want to do this here, then? Because I'm up for an audience if you are, mate – shall we start with last weekend?”

Sirius' knife and fork seem to jump out of his hands, clattering on the table as his fingers spasm and his face goes horribly pale. He looks at him, then, in a way that makes James regret ever wishing for it.

 _“_ Take it easy, Potter,” says stupid fucking Bones, actually trying to _placate_ him, looking at him like he's something Sirius needs fucking _protecting_ from. “You don't want another suspension on your first day back, now do you?”

 _“_ He's right,” Robbins chimes in, before James can kill anyone. “Bully him when you get home, for crying out loud.”

 _“_ I don't _bully_ him!”

 _“_ He doesn't fucking _bully_ me,” Sirius objects simultaneously. “I'd crush him like a fucking bug if he even tried. If anyone was going to bully anyone, I would be bullying him, since I'm not a pathetic little _girl_ who spent half the weekend sobbing all over a fucking dog _,_ just to pick a totally _random_ example – _”_

That really is the fucking _limit._ As if James' perfectly normal human response to normal human feelings is more embarrassing than having spent the entire weekend as his devoted and adoring dog? How dare Sirius come to him like that, stay with him like that, and then try to embarrass him with – what, with the fact that he loves him? It's not fair – it was _private,_ not even really for Sirius' eyes, never mind the fucking peanut gallery. _He'd_ been bluffing about airing their dirty laundry in front of the others – trust Sirius to take things too far, to cross lines like they're nothing while losing his mind any time someone so much as threatens to cross one of _his._

 _“Aww,_ really? Potter, that's so sweet!”

Robbins' patronizing exclamation bursts his bubble and brings him crashing back to reality. He's completely out of options – even if he hadn't been bluffing, the others are obviously not going to oblige him by providing a captive audience, and he's just going to look ridiculous and horrible if he tries to push it now.

 _“_ Thank you, Robbins,” he says breezily, pushing his glasses up his nose in a dignified sort of way. “I'm glad someone appreciates my sensitive side.”

 _Don't think this means you've won,_ he thinks at Sirius as he takes a seat, every thought a tiny mental dagger. _You are going to let me make things up with you, like it or fucking not._

 _“_ She appreciates you making her feel less mental,” Meadowes says, budging up discreetly to make a space for him. “She burst into tears when her new puppy licked her nose, you know. I've got a picture, somewhere.”

 _“_ Yeah, it's on my wall,” says Robbins blithely. “What? It's adorable. He's precious, and I look cute when I cry.”

It's easy enough to let their bickering smooth the awkwardness out of the atmosphere, to smile and joke on cue while he tries to flatten his mood into something more manageable. He shovels down a plate-full of flavourless shepherd's pie without looking more than four or five times at Sirius, who doesn't see fit to acknowledge his existence even once, like that bit of rank hypocrisy about the weekend is all he plans to contribute to the important, serious, _constructive_ conversation James is making every effort to have.

All afternoon, Sirius keeps the silent treatment going, every slightest glance in James' direction an icy blast of pure _fuck off._ It's torture, having him so close and so strangely untouchable, to see him and not speak to him, to watch him smile for other people and never once for him. What's worst is that it's still a million times better than not seeing him at all.

 _How long can you do this?_ James thinks over and over as the hours wear on. _It has to be killing you not to talk to me – how long until you crack?_

He's never known Sirius stay cold for anything like this long, and he can't quite believe it when they get to six o'clock without a single fucking word. It's unnatural, even kind of spooky, dealing with this self-possessed, contemptuous stranger that's taken up residence in his favourite person's skin. He veers between anger, hurt, and gut-wrenching worry, and can't tell by the end of the day if he wants to throttle, or fuck, or just fucking hold Sirius until all of it goes away.

As they pack up their things, Sirius' hand starts bleeding. It's not much, just a trickle of redness from one split knuckle that Sirius doesn't even seem to notice, but it's enough to tip James' see-sawing emotional scales back towards tenderness. He decides that he's going to do this softly, after all, to be gentle as he breaks down those defensive walls. He'll catch him as they leave, hug him, refuse to let go until Sirius melts back into himself and becomes warm and real and reachable again.

 _“_ Just a minute, Potter,” says Pembleton, just as he's heading out the door, and James could honestly fucking _cry_.

It's nothing – confirmation that he's still de-suspended and still on probation, a worthless waste of time meant only to remind him that he's lucky to be here. He nods his way through it, keeps his tone level and his posture as humble as he can make it, and refrains from informing Pembleton that he has the worst timing and the biggest stick up his arse known to all mankind.

When he finally escapes, he runs all the way through the building, panting hard as he crashes to a halt in the empty plaza outside. It's stupid – having rejected every olive branch thrust his way in the last ten hours, why would Sirius wait for him now? He knew that he'd be gone, of course he did, it's just that some part of him is so fucking dense, so stupid and hopeful and pathetic, that the idea that Sirius might _not_ wait just never got a proper look in until right now.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He's tried everything – every old haunt, every hunch, every spell he knows for finding something lost._
> 
>  
> 
> (In which James looks for Sirius, has a quick bit of fun with some Death Eaters, and ends up back in Hackney again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks as usual to anyone following this thing, especially those of you kind enough to leave regular comments. Apologies for the somewhat awkward length of this one - this chapter should probably come with a warning for sheer self-indulgence (and fairly liberal use of artistic license). 
> 
> Proper warnings - non-specific magical violence, and the unrepentant use thereof for interrogation purposes.

  **7.**

 

 

He goes straight to Hackney, sure that if he stakes out the red door for the rest of the night, he can't possibly fail again to gain entry. It's two am by the time he accepts that his optimism was perhaps unfounded, and past three when he finally gives up and heads back to the empty flat. He lies on Sirius' bed courting sleep without success, fiddling with the two-way mirror and forcing himself to stay mostly sober with an effort of will so intense that it's almost troubling.

 _“_ I'm not a fucking drunk,” he tells the indifferent glass at one point, rolling the bottle under the bed where it's out of easy reach. “I hardly touched a drop all weekend, remember? It's you, it's your fault – you'd drive anyone to drink, you would, and I might be gifted, you know, but I'm only fucking _human_.”

He says a lot of other things too, in the long, unreal hours between four and seven in the morning. This sick, gnawing dread starts scrabbling around in his stomach around the time the sun rises, and he finds himself bargaining with blank glass, pleading again in a way he'd never do if Sirius were actually listening.

The feeling refuses to abate, however much he reasons with it, driving him out of the flat a good half hour before he really needs to leave. He waits outside the centre as it stirs into life and lingers there as Robbins, Meadowes, and Bones make their way inside, only heading in when half past seven comes and goes without any sign of Sirius.

He takes his seat, and it's seven thirty-five, and Sirius should be here by now.

_He's late, that's all. He used to be late all the time, back in school._

It's forty minutes past, and Pembleton is frowning at an empty chair. No one exceeds the five minute margin – even James would never dare, not even pre-suspension.

_He's been early every day we've been here._

_“_ Sir,” he says, standing abruptly. “He wouldn't do this - he'd be here if something wasn't really wrong, you've got to know that.”

Pembleton gives him a sharp, searching look, and James meets it head-on.

 _“_ Let me go and look for him – he's in some kind of trouble, sir, I know he is.”

He knows – knew from the moment he pushed his chair back – that he will walk out of here whether Pembleton listens or not, whether he gets permission or expulsion out of this staring contest they've got going. Still, he can't help holding his breath as he waits for an answer, can’t help thinking _please, please, please._

 _“_ Five hours,” says Pembleton finally. “And if you're not back here with a damn good explanation before the clock strikes twelve, don't bother to come back at all.”

 _“_ Yes, sir – thank you, really, I won't forget this.”

 _“_ Neither will I, Potter. For the record, you now have four hours, fifty eight minutes, and thirty two -”

He's out the door before the sentence is finished, training and time limits and threats all forgotten as he sprints toward the exit.

 

 

* * *

 

He tries the flat, just in case. He tries St Mungo's and isn't sure if he's relieved or not when the receptionist checks three times and finds nothing. He tries Peter's house, shows up at his office to be told that no, Wormtail hasn't seen Sirius in months, and yes, of course he will tell James immediately if he does see him, and – most surprisingly – no, he will not drop what he's doing and bunk off work to help James look. Having quite possibly ruined one of his most cherished friendships, James leaves after three minutes of unproductive ranting, and wastes ages on repeated, futile efforts to get in touch with Remus.

He scours the most unsavoury corners of Knockturn Alley, throwing a few choice hexes and the name _Regulus_ around the unofficial death-eater drinking holes. The interrogation of the first couple of thugs who try to jump him as he walks out the door is viscerally satisfying and totally useless, yielding a lot of detailed information about things Sirius did several months ago and absolutely nothing about what he’s doing _now._

“He knows what’ll happen if he shows his face in here after last time,” the wiser, uglier snake-fucker insists when James presses the question that actually matters. “He’s had his chances, more than most ever get, the Da - no, that’s all I’ll…. ”

James conveys with a raised eyebrow and a meaningful look at the bloke’s less communicative mate exactly how much time he has for coyness with regard to their master’s “secret” identity.

“The Dark Lord is merciful!” the pathetic little worm blurts out, sounding more like he’s currently wishing that were true than like he’s trying to tell James anything useful.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s great,” says James, ramming the tip of his wand a bit further up the man’s nostril. “A real winner, I’d love to meet him someday, but the thing is, I didn’t ask you to list his top five sexiest qualities, now did I? I asked you -- very nicely, I might add -- if he’s laid a fucking finger on Sirius fucking _Black_.”

“No! Ow! Don’t! Don’t do -- don’t do _that_ to me, please --”

“Was that no as in ‘no, he hasn’t’? Oh, before you answer, you should probably know that I learned to do _that_ when I was fourteen, and I save my adult repertoire for people who _lie_ to me.”

“Yes! Yes, no, he hasn’t! I told you, I _told_ you, that blood-traitor was _warned_ -”

James extracts his wand from the coward’s nasal cavity and drags the tip over one paunchy cheek, partly to be menacing and partly just to get rid of the snot.

“Just because he was warned doesn’t mean he’d stay away. In fact, it pretty much guarantees that he _wouldn’t_ , so I’ve got to ask myself if maybe you’re -”

“I’m not, I’m not lying! He’s kept his nose out since his precious baby brother scared him off, and that was fucking weeks ago now. We all knew he wouldn’t be back -- he was white as a sheet, _shaking_ like a little gi -- aaaaargh!”

“Yeah, well, I bet he didn’t _piss_ himself,” James snarls, taking a disgusted step back before the rank yellow puddle spreads far enough to sully his boots. “We’ll see who’s a little fucking _girl --”_

And that’s when the cunt’s _friends_ show up, all flash-bang shock-and-awe tactics that give him just enough warning to stun the fucker and spin around.

_Four - Sirius can - no -_

He ducks just in time, wand arcing up to warp the pavement -- concrete buckles and sucks like quicksand and there are two shouts of alarm, two curses flying wide. And that’s one down to friendly fire and one screaming as the pavement eats his knees, but there’s two more and he has to roll and shield and his ear is melting, that’s odd, he’ll have to deal with that in a minute, but it doesn’t hurt, nothing hurts -- his body is singing, his heart-beat is steady -- and his shield is splitting and this would be _perfect_ if Sirius were here. He throws himself down, dropping the shield, and some whiplash impulse has him changing shape, antlers bursting through his skull (and that _does_ hurt, it always does) as he falls onto four quick, sure hooves and barrels headlong down the alley.

The stag knows survival, knows fleeing like breathing, knows nothing more instinctively than when to run away. He runs and runs and it’s a strange hunt, a strange forest, but he knows it, knows the twists and turns of it -- left here, faster, ankle stinging, panic, death-fear -- _steady, we’re still me --_ faster, stumbling on strange hard-smooth ground, left again, left here, losing them, faster faster, right now -- _lost them, change._

His hands still feel fleshy and wrong-shaped as he shoves one into his pocket, weird fingers fisting in his invisibility cloak. The dissonance disappears along with his body, and he presses back against the wall as his pursuers round the corner in a flurry of black robes and sprint right past him. His ear hurts now, this searing wetness against the side of his head, and his heart is beating hard and fast like it’s applauding him, adrenaline soaring through his body, and his veins feel so full of light they might burst. And he turns to look at Sirius, and Sirius isn’t there. Of course he’s not there, he knew that, but everything dims and dulls and goes blunt around the edges, and suddenly he’s just a stupid twat who nearly died for nothing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's tried everything – every old haunt, every hunch, every spell he knows for finding something lost. He has no idea where to go next, and so he lets habit take over and heads back to Hackney.

Fuck knows how long he spends banging furiously on that fucking red door -- long enough that his knuckles match Sirius’ by the time he gives up. He kicks it, pain cracking through his toes -- _fuck_ that fucking door -- and turns away, hobbling and cursing and hating the whole fucking universe.

Falling back against a wall, he lets himself feel it for a moment, the fear and alarm and _oh fuck please, please be alright_ , and the weight of it buckles his knees, sends him sagging down to the concrete like some vital bit of spine has been severed. He fumbles for the mirror in his pocket, letting its cutting edges press into the pads of his fingers until they pierce the skin, hardly even looking at it. He's been looking at it all morning, after all, checking the glass every fucking five minutes, and there's never anything -

Except there _is –_ there, a pink blur, a sign of _life -_

 _“_ Sirius!”

An eye appears in the glass – too close and too round and too fucking _brown -_

 _“_ What the _fuck?_ Who the fuck are _you_? Where is he, you fucking -”

 _“_ Um, hello?”

The eye retreats, and a boy of about fifteen appears, sallow and curly haired and enragingly curious.

 _“_ I'm Sid,” the boy says, peering too close to the glass again. “What are you? Are you like those portraits Jamie told me about? Do you live in here, or can you go in any kind of mirror?”

 _“_ You! I know you! You're that kid from the cult! What the fuck are you doing with that mirror?”

 _“_ Cult? What? No, I'm not. I'm Jamie's friend, my name's Sid, I'm just looking after his stuff until he wakes up – I wasn't snooping around, honest, you just fell out of his pocket – you don't think he'll mind, do you?”

 _“_ Wakes up?” James repeats blankly. “What do you mean _wakes up?”_

The boy's eager face clouds over, flickering transparently through anxiety, guilt, and – alarmingly – fear.

 _“_ They – um, they say it won't be long now,” he says, nibbling at his thumbnail. “They said it's just the, uh, the stuff that they gave him now, that means he's still... you know, not awake.”

 _“_ Who the fuck is _they?”_ James demands with enough force to make the kid recoil. “Where _is he?”_

 _“_ Oh, um – the nurses, I meant. They're really nice, you know – they think I'm his brother, though, you won't tell, will you? It's just they wouldn't let me stay otherwise and I think we look a bit alike, don't you?”

 _“_ Listen to me, you fucking brat, you tell me where he fucking is or I will -”

 _“_ Hackney hospital, alright! God, I was _going_ to say, you don't have to _yell_ at me _-_ you're in a _mirror,_ you know,I can just put you in the bin if I want to, so you should be careful...”

James shoves the mirror into his pocket, muting the boy's irrelevant babble. He barely heard anything past _hospital_ anyway – the hateful, chilling word hissing and repeating in his mind until it drowns out every other thought.

 

 

* * *

 

He bluffs and barges his way through the hospital without registering a single word that he or anyone else utters, not stopping to think or see or care about anything until a flimsy blue curtain is the only thing left in his way. He pulls it aside and everything slams to a halt inside him, adrenaline running suddenly dry as he stares at Sirius, lying on that narrow metal bed with his face a mess of bloody gauze, so fucking still that the world stops turning.

For a moment, he's afraid to touch him, and his fingers jitter clumsily as he presses them to Sirius' throat. The universe surges back into being with the soft throb of a pulse, and he laughs – laughs at himself for even thinking it, because it's impossible, isn't it – it's _Sirius,_ for fuck's sake, he's not the sort of person who could _die._

 _“_ Wow,” says that boy, looming gawkily up out of nowhere. “How did you get out?”

It makes James laugh harder, his eyes going blurry as he drops onto the bed next to Sirius, fingers still pressed to the beautiful thrum of his pulse-point.

 _“_ There's no need to laugh at me – Jamie says it's not my fault my dad won't let me know things, and I'm not the one who got stuck in a mirror, anyway, so I don't see what _you've_ got to laugh about, whoever the hell you even _are._ ”

He can't _stop laughing,_ even though nothing is funny and it's starting to hurt.

 _“_ Jamie,” he gasps, half hysterical now. “I'm Jamie, I'm his - ”

 _“_ No, you're not,” objects the ridiculous kid. “You're _weird –_ is he really friends with _you?”_

 _“_ Yes – yes – he really is – I know – it's mad, isn't it?”

 _“I'll_ say. Why are you laughing like that, anyway, if he's your friend – aren't you worried about him?”

That sobers him up enough that his hands are around the kid's throat before he knows what he's doing -

 _“_ Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?” he snarls, as the boy chokes and gapes and flails at him. “I've been worrying about that bastard since you were a fucking _sperm,_ you spotty little shit _,_ how fucking _dare_ you?”

 _“_ Nng!”

It hits him that he's strangling a literal _child,_ and he falls back, a bit shocked at himself. The boy gasps and touches his own neck like he's got to check it's still in one piece, and James feels like a prize bastard for the five seconds it takes his mind to hook back onto the sight of Sirius' unconscious body and refuse to let go.

 _“_ Sorry,” he says distractedly over his shoulder, sitting down by Sirius' blanketed hip.

A bit hesitantly, the boy comes and settles himself on the other side of the bed, his eyes skimming over Sirius' face like a hand through the flame on a candle. Sid, that was his name – he really is absurdly young looking, like he's not even properly hatched yet. He's being very careful not to make contact with any part of Sirius, poised awkwardly on the very edge of the mattress, and James feels bad all over again when he sees the red marks on his too-long neck.

 _“_ It's okay,” Sid tells him, shrugging in a way that looks borrowed from Sirius. “Um, is your name really Jamie?”

 _“_ Yeah – well, no, not really. Not since I was a kid. I'm James – James Potter. He's probably mentioned me.”

 _“_ No, never. He never talks about anyone, though, outside of – um, well, I shouldn't say.”

Tucking an errant strand of hair behind Sirius' ear, James makes himself evaluate as much of the damage as he can see under all this pointless, obstructive gauze. The broken nose is a no brainer, his left eye socket looks all smashed up under the stupid patch, and there's something skewed and wrong about the line of his jaw that James doesn't like looking at. It's all fixable, as far as he can tell – he can do it himself, if he's careful about it. It's fine, it's fine, he's not _broken_ , it's just all this useless muggle stuff making things look worse than they are.

 _“_ What happened?” he asks, and it seems strange, then, that it wasn't the first thing out of his mouth. “And I know all about your bloody cult, so there's no need for any bullshit, alright?”

 _“_ It's not a _cult!_ My dad is going tochange the _world,_ you'll see – anyway, I don't know, it was – I don't know why he wouldn't _stop._ I mean, it was amazing, obviously, he has been all week, but it's like – I don't know, it stopped being – he wouldn't – wouldn't stay down, and then... ”

Maybe that's why he didn't ask – because he knew, because none of it is anything other than what he _knew_ was going to happen from the minute he stepped into that fucking back-room. It's what he thought was going to happen before Sirius turned his world upside down by actually _yielding,_ for the first and only time in his stupid, brilliant life. It's been likely all along, and he made it inevitable when he said what he did outside Remus' cottage, and in a way it's a relief that it's finally happened, that this is as bad as it's going to get.

 _“_ It's alright,” he tells Sid, stroking a hand over Sirius' tangled, blood-matted hair. “I get the idea. How long has he been like this?”

 _“_ Eight hours and twenty minutes – they said it won't be long now.”

 _“_ When did they say that?”

 _“_ Oh... um, four hours ago.”

Sid's face falls as he considers this, and James leans over to pat him on the shoulder.

 _“_ He'll be alright,” he says, tousling Sirius' hair. “Won't you, you idiot? I'll wake you up myself in a minute, if you keep lazing around like this. I've got to be back before lunch, you know.”

 _“_ Can you _do_ that?”

 _“_ Oh, yeah, no problem. He just won't thank me for it.”

_Fucking hell, I hope that's true._

_“_ No way - _you_ can do magic? Have you got a _wand?”_

James produces it with a little flourish, making it shoot a few showy little sparks, just because.

 _“_ James?”

His heart makes a cliché of him, skipping a beat at the soft, drowsy murmur of Sirius' voice.

“Hello, stranger.”

Sirius' one visible eye flutters open, and he blinks slowly, like his lashes are weighted.

 _“_ James... ”

He sounds drugged, blissful - dazed with pleasure at the prospect of James' presence. It's literally the best thing James has ever heard in his entire life, and he will give Sirius anything at all, even his Nimbus, if he ever agrees to do it again.

 _“_ Hey,” he says, kissing Sirius' forehead. “Hello.”

 _“_... are you showing off again?”

 _“_ Hi, Jamie,” says bloody Sid, too nervous and young for James to even smack him. “Um – um -”

 _“_ Hello, Sidney.” Sirius smiles in this fond, sleepy way that makes the boy turn bright red. “Have you met James? He's my best friend, you know... ”

Fucking hell, what have these muggles done to him? He's gone all loopy and soft-edged and fucking... _sweet_. It's unnerving and lovely and James can't stop smiling at him.

 _“_ Are you okay?” Sid asks, leaning forward. “Does it hurt - do you want something? Should I get someone for you?”

Sirius' thick, dark lashes seem to cling to his cheek with every blink, his gaze unfocused and his mouth gone faintly puzzled, one corner quirking upward in a quizzical, amused sort of way.

 _“_ I'm alright... why wouldn't I be? It's nice here, I feel... nice.”

 _“_ Oh, good – great. I'm glad, I'm really... you were amazing, you know, but it was a bit, well, _intense_. My dad said you'd be fine, though, so I knew really, but you wouldn't wake up and it's weird here, even though they're nice, and -”

 _“_ Don't tell him that,” James cuts in, while Sirius just blinks in uncannily endearing bewilderment. “He wasn't amazing, he was a fucking stupid twat, and he's never going to do it again, _are you?”_

 _“_ Mm? Yeah... anything you say, James... ”

That's more appealing than it should be, though not reassuring in the slightest. Sid gives Sirius a funny look, which James finds oddly vindicating – he knew it wasn't normal for people to go around saying that kind of thing every time they get a bit sleepy. He knew it was a fucking _thing_.

 _“_ Is he really alright?” Sid asks him in a worried undertone. “He's being really weird. They gave him, I don't know... stuff. Sedatives, they said – is this what sedatives do?”

 _“_ Sedatives?” says Sirius. “Oh, is that why... am I sedated, James?”

 _“_ I certainly hope so.”

 _“_... why?”

 _“_ Because you're a menace to society and to your bloody self, that's why. Do you not remember how you got here?”

Sirius' brow creases thoughtfully, and he touches his jaw with a slight wince.

 _“_ I was... no, not really. I was fighting, I thought I was... did I win?”

 _“_ Does your face feel like you fucking won? Honestly, Sirius, what were you _thinking?”_

His voice comes out too loud, and Sirius gets this look on his face that's just lost and worried and uncomprehending, and he feels like fucking scum.

 _“_ You're angry with me... ? Oh... oh, fuck, I forgot, you're really angry with me.”

 _“_ No, hey, it's alright,” James says, pressing down on his shoulders when he tries to sit up. “I'm not, I promise, don't think about that. Just tell me how bad it is, yeah? You need to go to proper hospital, or can I do it all at home?”

 _“_ Home,” says Sirius immediately, staring up at him like he's a whole fucking sky-full of stars. “Can we really... ?”

 _“_ Yeah, Pads, of course we can.”

 _“_ You _can't_!” exclaims Sid, looking at him like he's lost his mind. “You don't understand – half his ribs are broken, his arm, his _face --_ he was bleeding _inside,_ they said - he's all – he's – he can't go _home,_ they _said_ , not for _days_ maybe -”

 _“_ Yeah, he can.” James spares the kid a reassuring look. “I can fix all that, no problem. I've done it hundreds of times.”

He has – he's mended every bone in the human body, if never more than a nose or wrist that belonged to an actual human. That seems an insignificant detail, though, hardly worth considering – after all, he was practically top of the class, and they practised all the healing stuff for an insanely long time, and Sirius _wants_ to go home.

 _“_ Wow, _really?_ That's amazing – how does it work?”

 _“_ I'll tell you all about it, kid, just not right now, yeah? Come on, back up, I need some space to get him up.”

 _“_ I don't need - ” Sirius cuts off with a bitten-back moan, pale and shuddering as he tries again to sit up. “I can -”

 _“_ No, you can't, you stupid prick. Just shut up and hold on to me, alright?”

Those sedatives must really be something, because Sirius actually does as he's told without so much as a murmur of protest. Pliant and co-operative, if a little uncoordinated, he hooks his unbroken arm around James' neck and shifts, grunting softly with pain, until he's semi-upright and trembling all over, biting James' robes in an attempt to stay quiet.

 _“_ It's okay,” James whispers into his hair. “It's okay, this won't take long.”

 _“_ How are you going to – um -- can I help? Do you need, I don't know -”

 _“_ We're fine. Bye, Sid.”

 _“_ Wha -”

They're outside the flat, the boy gone and long forgotten, and it's clumsy and awkward and Sirius hisses and clings to him, still shaking helplessly until James gets his wand out and turns him weightless.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _“_ James,” Sirius whispers, a little cross-eyed as he stares up at the tip of James' wand. “Am I still sedated?”

 _“_ I wouldn't know, Pads. How are you feeling?”

Sirius blinks, and licks thoughtfully at the half-healed cut splitting his lower lip down the middle.

 _“_ Weird. Really... I think I am, still. I don't feel... you know.”

Surveying the wreck that's just about recognizable as his favourite face, James winces and summons some more dittany. He's fixed the bones around his eye, already, set his jawline straight and healed his nose, and still, Sirius looks a complete fucking mess.

 _“_ That's good, then. Try and stay that way, alright? Think floaty thoughts or something – I'm going to do your ribs now, and it's probably going to hurt a fair bit.”

 _“_ I don't mind that,” says Sirius softly, fingers curling in James' sleeve. “You know that I don't...”

 _Fuck,_ thinks James emphatically. _Fuck, you're so -_

_No, come on – healing. Healing time. Come on, you sick fuck, he's out of his head._

He can't think of anything to say that isn't wildly inappropriate, and for once, that doesn't seem like a particularly good thing. He tugs a bit awkwardly at the collar of the weird backwards cape Sirius is wearing, clearing his throat.

 _“_ This is in the way. I'm just going to – do you mind?”

 _“_ Mm? No, you can... anything you want... ”

 _“_ Fuck's sake _,_ Sirius - stop saying that, yeah? It makes it hard to – you're – well, you're making this very fucking difficult, alright? Just shh, now.”

 _“_ Sorry, I don't mean to be... I'm not myself, I don't know what I'm saying.”

 _“_ I know, shh,” James says, gentle again, letting his fingers trail over the sharp ridge of a collarbone. “Don't mind me, I'm just being a dick. Right then – ribs.”

He vanishes the plastic-y cape thing, leaving Sirius wearing nothing but the quilt draped haphazardly over his hips, and tells himself that his stare is the evaluative gaze of the master healer. That pale skin is marked all over, bruises like red-laced deep purple nebulae clustering his chest and sides and the sharp rise of his hipbones, like some creatively-minded cosmic entity has been using him as a canvas to practice painting galaxies. There are raw grazes here and there, and a swatch of especially livid bruising on his left shoulder where the sole of a boot has left its rough, red imprint tattooed into Sirius' flesh. It looks awful, all of it - nasty and painful and nothing James ever wanted to see. It makes him sick and sad and angry, and still, it's so fucking _compelling,_ somehow. He wants to touch those marks as badly as he wants to heal them, wants to map every bruise with the tips of his fingers and tongue.

_What the hell is the matter with me?_

Wanting Sirius is fine, albeit frustrating, and he's certainly not going to waste any effort on trying to stop doing it, but still - there is a time and a fucking place, isn't there? It's just so good to see him, to be let in again, to be allowed to touch him almost freely, and with the way Sirius looks, how is _almost_ ever supposed to be enough? Right now the boundaries of _almost_ feel as flimsy as those wisps of gauze he stripped off Sirius' face – one fleeting, purposeful touch is all it would take to peel them away. There are no walls right now, only the memory of them hanging like a mist in the distance separating James from everything he most wants. It's like he can skip past the part where they rebuild their bridges and just stroll across the water to take back what should always be his.

_Come on, Prongs, snap the fuck out of it._

Ribs are tricky, delicate things, and he sweeps his mind clean as the tip of his wand hovers over Sirius' torso, sending little tendrils of magic probing under bruised skin to survey the extent of the damage. It's pretty fucking bad – bad enough that it's a near miracle he can breathe without bursting into tears. Either muggles are better at relieving pain than at any other aspect of healing, or Sirius is being considerably more stoic about this than James had assumed he was capable of in his current, addled state. He winces himself as he fuses the first fractured bone as gently as he can - which is not very, unfortunately, because in training it was all about speed and efficiency, and mitigating pain hardly even got a look in. Sirius' eyelashes flutter and twitch, and he presses his lips together, nodding once like he knows James needs permission before he does this another sixteen fucking times - like he knows that he's thinking pretty seriously about letting an expert handle this after all.

He moves onto the next rib down, which isn't quite so bad– the break is cleaner, and the narrow arc of bone repairs itself smoothly under the lightest touch of magic he can manage. Smiling a bit at his own deftness, precision, and damn it, _finesse,_ he flicks his gaze over to Sirius' face, inordinately pleased when he catches him looking impressed.

 _“_ Not bad, right?”

Sirius rolls his eyes, though the effect is rather undermined by his fluttering lashes and lazy, half-amused smile.

 _“_ Yeah, yeah... ten points to Gryffindor.”

 _“_ Come on, that was worth at least twenty. I bet it didn't even hurt, that time.”

 _“_ Not much,” Sirius concedes, his eyes sliding shut and his smile gone strangely confiding. “Just... yeah. Just enough to feel it.”

As dearly as he would love to pursue that too-inviting line of conversation, it doesn't really seem fair to coax out the details he's so desperately curious about right now, knowing full well that Sirius will feel like shit about it as soon as the sedatives wear off. Clearing his throat, he looks away from Sirius' mouth, returning his attention to the task at hand.

 _“_ Right then – this won't take five minutes now I've got the hang of it.”

He works his way carefully through another ten ribs – sinking into a strange, hyper-focused state that's almost like a trance as he weaves careful, cunning strands of magic around Sirius' fractured bones. Sirius is almost perfectly quiet and still, though his fingers clench in the sheets when the sixth rib down proves a bit more difficult, and he moans in a way that forces James to pause for a couple of seconds when he hits a snag with the seventh as well. It's only when he moves on to the splintered mess of the thirteenth that a sudden, ragged sob rips through his concentration and he has to rush to hold Sirius down as he arches up in a way that's bound to make things worse.

 _“Fuck,_ ” Sirius gasps, going limp under the pressure of his hands. “Fuck – shit – sorry.”

 _“_ Shh, don't be daft – just relax, yeah? Nearly done now, alright? We'll take a break if you want.”

 _“_ No, no - it's alright, I can – I can handle it, just – fuck, James, it _hurts_...”

Sirius moans the last word like it means its own opposite, like he's not complaining but pleading for more, and fuck, this isn't _fair._ His cock twitches and strains against suddenly restrictive cotton, so hard so fast it leaves him dizzy, and he can'tdo anything about it because there's this fucking stupid line in the way that actually fucking matters.

 _“_ Nearly done,” he says, like he doesn't understand. “You want me to finish?”

 _“_ Yeah, I'll be... I won't do that again.”

 _“_ Only three to go,” says James a bit helplessly. “Not long now.”

He shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to picture his mind as a clear winter sky, stark and cold and empty, high above the chaos Sirius has incited in his rebellious body. When that fails, he falls back on an old standby and just pictures Snape without his clothes on until he feels a bit sick.

Sirius' remaining ribs are much less difficult, and he keeps his word, staying mercifully silent until the last bone curves smoothly back into place.

 _“_ Thanks,” he says then, all dazed and wondering, and not kissing him is the hardest thing that James has ever done.

 _“_ What are friends for? I'll just do your arm, shall I?”

It's a piece of cake compared to the ribcage, though Sirius bites the cut in his lip open trying not to vocalize whatever rush of pleasure-pain he gets out of the process.

 _“_ Elbows are so weird,” James finds himself saying as he surveys his handiwork, flailing around for some safe observation, something that isn't _you are so fucking hot_ to fill his mouth with before it gets carried away. “I mean, yours are alright as they go, but they're still warped looking bastards, aren't they?”

Sirius sighs quietly, and closes his eyes.

 _“_ Knees are worse.”

 _“_ Nonsense, some people have lovely knees – name me one person with a sexually appealing elbow.”

The lush, bleeding curve of Sirius' mouth quirks in a slightly mischievous sort of way that makes James want to bite it.

 _“_... Pembleton.”

 _“What!?_ You're joking - tell me you're joking.”

Sirius laughs, low and soft and pleased with himself.

 _“_ You are, right, of course you are – I knew that.”

 _“_ They are kind of nice, though,” says Sirius thoughtfully. “He rolls his sleeves up sometimes... ”

 _“_ Ugh, no! Stop!” James gestures like he's trying to fend the notion off before it contaminates him, which is precisely how he feels about the matter. “It's like fancying McGonagall or something - you just don't go there, even in jest. Honestly, Pads, I have to _see_ him in a bit – oh, shit, what's the time?”

He checks the clock, a bit panicked all of a sudden, exhaling in a relieved rush when the hands point to forty minutes past eleven.

_Great – enough time for a cold shower._

_“_ You alright?” Sirius asks, anxiety draining some of that drifting, floaty quality out of his voice. “You're not... I haven't...?”

 _“_ No, it's good, don't worry about it. I've got a couple of minutes before I need to head back.”

 _“_ Am I late?... Wait, what time isit? James, have I fucked things up again?”

James' chest tightens a bit, and he runs a hand over Sirius' forehead, firm enough to press him back into the pillow when he jerks up like he's trying to get out of bed.

 _“_ Relax,” he says. “It's fine, your favourite pair of elbows sent me to look for you, didn't he? You won't be in trouble once I've told him what's up – he'll probably send flowers, seeing as it's _you.”_

 _“_ Are you sure?”

 _“_ About the flowers? No. But yeah, you'll get a couple of days off, he'll do a bit of shouting to show that he cares, it'll all be done and dusted. Persuading him to let _me_ take time off might be a bit tricky, but I'll talk him 'round in the end.”

Sirius stares at him like he's sprouted a second head.

 _“_ Why on earth... what the fuck would you try and do that for?”

 _“_ Because I hate disguises, obviously. You know me, anything to get out of a spot of horrible old _fun._ ”

 _“_ James,” Sirius protests, pushing up against his hand. “Come on, don't be stupid, you're not seriously going to ask him?”

 _“_ Of course I am, what else would I do – just take off? Suspension was a real lark and all that, but you can have too much of a good thing, you know.”

 _“_ Don't be _stupid,_ ” says Sirius, hand curling around his wrist and tugging weakly. “Please, James, I'm really, really... I don't know, sedated, alright, and I just want to go to sleep, so please just stop fucking around and promise you're not going to come back until after six, alright? I don't need... I'm not an _invalid_. You think I want to get you... you think I don't feel bad enough about last time?”

 _“_ You should've thought of that before getting yourself into this fucking state then, shouldn't you? You can't honestly think I'd just leave you like this.”

Looking stricken and alarmingly close to tears, Sirius tightens his grip on his wrist, trying again to get himself upright.

 _“Please_ , James.”

 _“_ Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, seriously, you think you can take care of yourself for a few hours? You'll just sleep and drink water and stay here, right? You won't fall on anyone's fists or piss yourself or try and _leave_ or anything?”

 _“_ Fuck you, why would I _piss_ myself?”

 _“_ I don't know, I'm not a nurse, am I? Besides, you move in mysterious ways – some might ask why you'd slander your dearest friend, or voluntarily get the shit kicked out of you to the point where your fucking insides bleed.”

He's just running his mouth, sort of pleased that he can get Sirius to scowl like that even through a haze of sedation. He doesn't mean to keep giving him a hard time about this beating he's chosen to take, not really – he's just rattled from too much worry and loose-tongued with the relief of being around him, and maybe still a little sore, a little bitter and angry and hurt about the business of being shunned and mistrusted and thrown into a fucking tree.

Sirius does not look like he understands this, the way he usually understands when James is just being sort of abrasive because _some_ people make it really hard to say things like ‘ _I want to look after you’_ without being a bit indirect. He looks as if James has dropped the whole horrible weight of last week on his head, when he had his guard down and wasn't braced for it at all.

 _“_ I know,” he says wretchedly. “I know, I don't... why are you even here? I wasn't sure, I couldn't – you were acting like it never happened, so I thought... I don't know, it's stupid. But it's real, isn't it, and you really think... ”

 _“_ Of course I fucking don't,” James says, hands moving to Sirius' shoulders to emphasize the point with a rough shake. “You know I'd never – I shouldn't have said it, and I'm sorry, alright, but you've got to know I'd never _mean_ it. It's the last thing I'd ever think – you're nothing like that lot, you never have been.”

Pain and surprise and this terrible _hope_ chase each other across Sirius' expressive face, and all the pressure and force goes right out of James' grip when he locks eyes with him and whispers _“Yeah?”_

 _“_ Cross my heart, Sirius – come on, you know I think the fucking world of you. You didn't really think I meant it, did you?”

 _“_ Of course not,” says Sirius unconvincingly, cheeks flushed underneath all the bruising. “Hey, don't you have to leave?”

It's a transparent bit of redirection, but a glance at the clock confirms that he really probably should. Later – they can talk about it later. He's waited this long, he can last another afternoon, can't he? He can go six hours without hearing Sirius tell him that he didn't mean what _he_ said, either. He's not a _child,_ he's a fucking professional, he's not going to be late just because he needed bloody _reassurance._

 _“_ Look, are you sure you don't want me to take some time off? The rest of today, at least?”

 _“_ Don't start that again. I'll be fine, I'll just sleep, like you said. I promise not to piss myself, okay?”

 _“_ Promise you won't _leave._ Honestly,you can piss all over the flat as long as you're still here when I get back. _”_

Sirius looks at him like he's said something deeply touching and maybe even sweet, which is not what he was going for, but kind of nice, all the same.

 _“_ Alright,” he says, all solemn and hushed. “I'll be here, I promise.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James and Sirius talk (and talk and talk and talk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not kidding with that chapter summary, that is literally all that happens. Oh, and some brief choking, but the talking doesn't even pause for that. 
> 
> Not quite sure how to warn for this one, actually. It's not the first time the word 'assault' would apply to behavior in this fic, but it does feel worth putting it out there with regard to the choking, because it's definitely the furthest James goes in terms of sexualized-but-no-sexual-touching type violence. If anyone feels any other warnings ought to be on there, please do let me know. 
> 
> Thanks as always for the feedback, and for reading. Sorry about all the bloody dialogue.

  **8.**

 

 

He doesn't _run_ to Sirius' room, exactly – it's much more of a brisk, dignified stride. It's just six hours have never passed so fucking slowly, and even if Sirius promised, even if he's never broken a single promise to James in the past, what if he's not actually _there?_

He is – of course he is - fast asleep in the welcoming expanse of his four poster bed, flat on his back on top of the blankets with nothing but his boxers and a threadbare grey t-shirt to keep him warm. Beaming and a little bit breathless, James shucks his cloak, kicks his shoes off, and drops down next to him, rolling onto his side and propping himself on one elbow for a spot of uninterrupted staring.

Sirius looks peaceful, which is rare enough even in sleep that, years before this urgent new desire took hold, James would always watch it for as long as it lasted. It's only natural, like staying awake to catch sight of a solar eclipse; some things are just unusual enough to be worth appreciating whenever the opportunity presents itself. If everything were different - if he'd married Lily and lived in a nice, clean house, with a gaggle of gorgeous, green-eyed children and a strict no smoking policy - he'd still do this every chance he got. He could be fifty and fat with contentment, and Sirius would still be as fascinating like this as the whole world looked the first time he ever saw it from the sky.

 _“_ What's it like in there, Pads? Where do you go when you look like that?”

Sirius stirs, cracked lips parting on a sigh as his eyelids flicker and crease.

 _“_... James?”

He didn't really mean to disturb him, but his heart still jumps like a dog that's heard its master's voice at the sound of his name in Sirius' mouth.

 _“_ Hi,” he says, and doesn't really care that it sounds like _I fucking adore you._ “Did you miss me?”

Sirius shoots him a slightly bleary version of the old _don't be soft_ look, awake enough to roll his eyes before he's even rubbed the sleep out of them.

 _“_ Is it really six o'clock already?”

 _“_ Yeah, just gone – you been asleep this whole time, you idle bugger?”

 _“_ What was I supposed to be doing, turning bloody cartwheels? I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm what you might call _indisposed._ ”

Prickly, indignant, needlessly theatrical. Decidedly un-sedated.

 _“_ I'm glad you're feeling better,” James says, grinning as he shifts a bit closer.

 _“_ I feel _horrible,_ ” Sirius groans, which is the best indication James could ask for that he's basically going to be fine. “What was I thinking, letting a rank amateur like you have a go at my ribcage? You've fucking _ruined_ me, you prick.”

 _“_ Oh, please, St Mungo's finest couldn't have done a better job, and you know it. It hurts because someone's _boot_ had a go at your bloody ribcage, and we both know whose fault that is.”

Sirius starts to stretch and stops with a sharp inhalation, clapping a hand to his right side, face screwed up and slightly rueful.

 _“_ Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I've learned my lesson, haven't I, so you can stop being such a fucking nag about it. How did it go with Pembleton, anyway?”

 _“_ Oh, that... listen, you didn't really _want_ to be an Auror, right?”

Sirius jerks upright, all rigid and panicked and urgent “ _are you joking?”_

 _“_ Of course I am, you prat. It's fine, obviously - we've got 'til Wednesday, and he's soft enough on you that he'll probably stretch it to the weekend if you want to milk that internal bleeding thing a bit.”

 _“_ Seriously? Fucking hell, you are such a total _–_ wait, what do you mean _we?”_

 _“_ I told you, he's soft on you, isn't he? He hardly even pretended to think about it once I said you'd got no one else.”

Sirius glares at him, one arm wrapped protectively around his own ribcage, voice tight with with strain of sitting up.

 _“_ Tell me you're still joking.”

 _“_ It's hard to believe, I know, but no, I really _am_ that good.”

 _“_ Oh, you're fucking unbelievable alright -”

 _“_ You're welcome,” James tells him, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, most people would be grateful for my tender, loving care, you know. Only you would call a man a bastard for giving up his first few days of unsuspension to cater to your every ridiculous whim.”

 _“_ I don't _want_ you to – you said, you _promised_ you wouldn't -”

 _“_ Yeah, _today,_ because you looked like you were going to cry. I didn't say anything about the rest of the week.”

 _“_ I was not going to fucking _cry_ , you bastard,” says Sirius, a lot more genuinely aggrieved by all this than James was expecting. “I can't believe you've done this – you want them all to think I'm completely pathetic? Is this some kind of fucked up _payback?_ ”

 _“_ Of course it's fucking not!” James sits up, anger sparking up and down his spine. “ _Payback,_ seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? I just wanted to _be_ with you, you complete and utter cunt!”

The fiendfyre heat in Sirius' eyes flares brighter for half a second and then disappears, and his expression crumples into something sheepish and almost ashamed.

 _“_...oh.”

 _“_ Yeah, _oh,”_ snaps James. “God knows _why_ , when you can't go five minutes without insulting me, you impossible, paranoid freak. No one thinks you're pathetic, for fuck's sake – they don't even think you're mad, since I spared them the finer details of your little misadventure. Like I always do when I cover for you, because I'm your fucking best mate and not some monstrous cunt who's out to fucking _get_ you.”

It strikes him as he's talking how awkward it is to be having this row when they're side by side on Sirius' bed like this, and it just pisses him off that little bit more. He looks _silly_ , and it's Sirius' fault, and he'd pictured moody pacing and shoving him up against a wall, not bouncing like an idiot on his fucking springy mattress, flapping his hands around like a furious crow.

 _“_ I know,” says Sirius quietly, hanging his head and fiddling with a burn hole in his t-shirt. “I know that, I'm sorry.”

 _“_ I don't want you to be _sorry,_ I want you to fucking trust me!”

Sirius looks like he's been slapped, which he fucking deserves to be, the suspicious, hostile, ungrateful _fuck._

 _“_ I do! I trust you with my life, you know I do _-”_

 _“_ Yeah, of course I know _that,_ I'm talking about the rest of it! What good is it to know I'd die for you if you still think I'd – all of that _shit_ you said, Sirius, is that really what you fucking think of me? Because that's not trust _,_ mate, and if you think it is, you're more fucked in the head than I thought you were.”

 _“_ James -”

 _“_ Don't ' _James'_ me, you prick, fucking explain yourself.”

Sirius' shoulders hunch and his head bows even lower, all hangdog posture and bitten lower lip. Where the fuck does he get off, looking like that? He's the one who caused all this damage, the one who gets to have nice _irrational_ fears that are a million times more easily dealt with than an actual, real life problem like losing the trust of a person you love. What right does _he_ have to look fragile and dejected and so beautiful that it borders on fucking manipulative?

James is not going to fall for his fucking kicked-puppy act, not now, no matter how much he can tell that his fucking ribs are hurting him.

 _“_ Lie down, for fuck's sake,” he snaps, when Sirius' shoulders start to vibrate like glass about to shatter. “It's not making me any less pissed off to watch you martyr yourself just to stay upright.”

 _“_ I'm not -”

 _“_ Yeah, you are, so fucking stop it. I want to punch you every time you wheeze like that.”

Sirius sinks down onto the mattress, shooting him a weird look that's somewhere between sorry and mutinous.

 _“_ You can, if you like,” he says, closing his eyes. “More than once, if it'll help.”

That does it – James is done with this guilt tripping bullshit, done with sitting here feeling stupid and awkward and _bad,_ when he's the one who's been done fucking _wrong._ A clumsy, angry scramble and he's on top of Sirius, straddling his waist and bracing his hands either side of his head, making a cage of his body and speaking fast and low and inches from Sirius' face.

 _“_ I don't need your fucking _permission_ – you think you could stop me, if I decided to hurt you right now? Do you have any idea what state you were in this morning – do you understand how fucking _helpless_ you actually are? Do you know what it's like, knowing how much you want me to do it? If I weren't a better man than you think I am -”

Sirius looks spell-struck by the time he cuts off, all lust-dazed and transparent like he got when James had him trapped like this before. He's hard – James can feel it when his hips shift underneath him like Sirius can't control himself, and his own cock stiffens in response. Then – of course – the flare of shame, the shaken head, the frantic attempt at retreat.

 _“_ I don't _want_ \- I'm just saying -”

 _“_ Yes, you fucking _do._ Stop it – stop that – this is what I mean, why can't you just fucking _trust_ me?”

 _“_ I said I do, didn't I? I trust you, alright, just – just get off me, James, please -”

 _“_ Why, so you can run away again? If you trust me so much, why does this even bother you? What am I going to do that's so fucking awful – find out I've given you another hard-on?”

Sirius flushes scarlet, and James has to move quickly to avoid another fucking headbutt, holding him down with a hand round his throat that makes Sirius actually _whimper_ , hips stuttering helplessly under James' pinning weight. _Fuck_ but he's hot, and so fucking infuriating James could honestly strangle him.

 _“_ There, see, was that a trusting thing to do?” he says with deliberate condescension, letting his hand squeeze just a little when he feels Sirius trying to swallow. “I make a simple observation, and you go and try to headbutt me – what kind of a way is that to treat your closest friend? Now, are we going to talk about this like civilized adults, or do I have to keep you restrained like a fucking rabid dog until you get so turned on you can't lie to me any more?”

Sirius looks like he's hitting that point right about now, as a matter of fact, his mouth moving silently and his darkened eyes half-delirious, his pulse gone mad under the press of James' fingers. It's unravelling James' thoughts just to look at him, just to feel him trying to fight his own body, losing badly and still refusing to yield, like he hasn't learned any fucking lessons at all. How can someone so knife-sharp and brilliant and fucking _cool_ come so completely undone when he's hardly even _touched_ him? It's a power rush like nothing else, like learning that he's not just great but fucking _godly,_ like there's thunder in his blood and lightning waiting in the tips of his fingers. He feels like he could split the sky with a wave of his hand, pluck the stars like ripe fruit and feed them to Sirius until he's so full of light that the glow that lives in his skin starts to make actual sense.

Sirius' hips jerk and his eyes roll back in his head and fuck, James is actually _choking_ him, fuck, this wasn't supposed to happen – his hand slackens its too-tight grip and falls away, that heady, overwhelming sense of power giving way to the more familiar lurch of guilt that comes from going too far.

 _“_ Sorry,” he says, his whole body gone awkward and stiff as he climbs off Sirius, his damn cock still achingly hard. “Sorry, I shouldn't – I didn't mean to do that.”

He gets off the bed entirely, not sure where to put himself or what to do with his hands. He turns to look at Sirius, and his cock twitches and his hands go all clammy with guilt at the sight of him; trembling and gasping for air with James' finger-marks branding his throat, cock tenting his flimsy black boxers.

 _“_ This – this is why -” Sirius forces out, hoarse and breathless, hands fisted tight in the bed sheets. “You can't help it, can you?”

 _“_ I'm _sorry,_ alright, I just – you're just so – hey, can't help _what?_ What do you mean, this is why? I've never even done that before! You can't blame all of this on something I hadn't even fucking _done_ yet -”

 _“_ I mean you can't leave it alone! You've always got to prove you _can,_ even when you don't fucking _want -_ ”

Sirius throws himself off the bed and then staggers, face gone shockingly pale as his body catches up with his careless head, not so much leaning as falling into the nearest wall. It's just instinctive to move towards him, to reach out and take hold of his shoulders and manoeuvre him back to the edge of the bed, and Sirius' knees buckle at the first downward push.

 _“_ Don't, alright?” James says, fingers curling tight into tense, knotted muscles when Sirius gets it together enough to snarl and shove at him and try to stand back up. “Just sit, yeah – just talk to me.”

 _“_ I – fuck – alright. Alright, I'll talk, just give me some fucking _space,_ will you?”

It's the last thing he wants to do, and it stings to be asked, but he pries his hands off Sirius' shoulders all the same, and backs off a couple of steps until he's out of touching range. As a further show of good faith, he sits down, settling on the thick red carpet with his legs bent in front of him and tipping his head back to look Sirius in the eyes.

 _“_ There, is that better?”

Sirius nods, hands fisted in his lap like there's any point trying to hide his hard-on at this point, and closes his eyes as if trying to collect himself. James waits with frankly remarkable patience, given the circumstances, letting silence tighten like a noose until it becomes an actual pressure on his windpipe, a physical _need_ to say something.

 _“_ This isn't talking,” he points out when he just can't take the strain any longer. “This is, you know, the opposite of that.”

Sirius looks up sharply, like the vital business of picking at his scabbed up knuckles had him so absorbed he'd forgotten James was even _here._ He scowls, as if it's somehow unfair to expect him to hold up his side of a bargain that he himself proposed.

 _“_ What do you want me to say _?_ ”

 _“_ You know what,” James sighs, exasperated. “I want you to tell me why you don't -”

 _“_ Do _not_ say fucking 'trust me' -”

 _“_ Oh, come on! Why shouldn't I say it, when that's the fucking problem?”

 _“_ Because trusting you is fucking _reflex!”_ Sirius snaps, savage and hopeless. _“_ I can't help it, even when I don't _want_ to, just like I can't help but come crawling back even when you've made it crystal fucking clear what you think of me. I'm here, aren't I? Even after – you asked me to stay and I fucking stayed, why can't that be enough? How unequal do you need things to _be?”_

_“Unequal?”_

The word makes no sense – it's the last way anyone would ever describe them, the last thing the two of them could possibly be.

 _“_ Don't say it like you don't _know -”_

 _“_ I _don't_ know! I don't, because we're _not,_ what the fuck are you talking about?”

 _“_ You're really going to make me say it, aren't you? I'm talking about the fact I need you, you sadistic piece of shit. There, you win, I fucking need you, and you don't need me, are you happy now?”

He just can't fucking parse that at all. He knows what all the words mean but they make no sense in that order.

 _“_ Are you – you're not... _brain-damaged_ , are you?”

He's not joking at all, but Sirius laughs in that manic, angry way that means he's managed somehow to make this worse.

 _“_ I mean it,” James says, trying very hard not to stand up. “I'm not – you're not making sense, I don't understand what you're --”

 _“_ Yes, you fucking do! Stop saying that! Stop acting like you don't know that you're more to me than I'll ever be to you, when none of this would be fucking happening if you hadn't known that for fucking years and made a point of fucking _knowing_ it. I could have lived with it, you know, I never expected you to feel, to, to want, I'm not _stupid._ I know what you think, but not having all of you was never the part I couldn't handle. It's the fact that you know, and knowing made you stop – made you – it's losing your _respect_ , alright? Losing what I was to you, what we were, and not just – my respect for _myself_ , James, my fucking – all I've ever _had_ that someone couldn't take, and you took it, and you give it back and take it away like we're playing fucking _fetch._ And I let you, I let you laugh at me, I'd let you – this morning, fucking hell, I almost, I would have, just to _make_ you laugh, just so you'd be _pleased_ with me again, do you know what that feels like? You make me _weak,_ you bastard. You make me everything I hate, and it's just another feather in your cap to you, isn't it?”

Sirius' voice cracks on that nonsensical question in a way that makes him sound like his throat is full of splinters. He scrubs at his face with his hands like the admission has stained him, then drops them abruptly to look at James with this raw-edged attempt at resignation that's a million times worse than all the raving and poison and spite in the world.

 _“_ It's not your fault. It's not, I'm sorry, I shouldn't – it's me, I know it is. I know you care about me more than anyone else ever will, I know you don't really mean to... and I know that we could – that we would have been brothers if I was only – if I wasn't – if I could just get _rid_ of this fucking -”

 _“_ Sirius, _stop_ -”

It's more plea than command, even though he's shouting. He can't listen to this any more, can't watch him fracture and stammer and stumble through the darkness in his head all alone. It's hard enough as it is to stay seated, to not touch him, to leave the space he asked for whole and undisturbed. It's important, so he'll do it - he'll hold all his muscles still and leave that unbearable distance alone for as long as it takes - but he never said anything about being _quiet._

 _“_ Stop _what,_ you asked me to -”

 _“_ I know, I know I did, but now I'm asking you to shut up and listen, alright?”

 _“_ No, it's not _alright!_ I don't want to fucking _hear_ it, James, why can't you – you know me better than anyone, how can you not understand that? I don't want your platitudes any more than I want your stupid head games. Why do you think I never – why do you think I've tried to avoid ever having this fucking conversation? There's nothing you can _say_ -”

 _“_ How the _fuck_ would you know?”

He has to push himself down, halfway to standing before he can help it. He takes a deep breath and it does absolutely nothing to control the angry rise of his voice -

 _“_ You haven't the first fucking clue what I'm going to say. I used to think you could read my mind, but the more you talk, the more I wonder if you know me at _all._ Don't you fucking dare presume to pre-empt me when you've buried yourself so deep in delusion and self-pity that you don't even know who I am any more.”

He can't quite believe that Sirius isn't hitting him, that neither of them has stood up. It feels like a challenge they've set one another, like one of those deliberately impossible dares that Sirius sometimes comes up with just to see if he'll give it a try. It's more difficult than all the rest of them combined – how is he supposed to convey what he needs to when he can't even _touch_ him? It's like being asked to give the most important speech of his life without using the words _“and”_ or “ _I”_ or “ _the” -_ what language can he speak at this distance that could possibly cover even half of what needs to be said?

 _Still,_ he thinks, looking up at Sirius - _nothing is impossible, is it?_

_Maybe it's time you learned how to read my mind again._

_“_ I've got an idea,” he says. “I don't know where to start, you know, because I can't get my head around the thought that I'd have to spell something out for you that a fucking stranger would pick up on. I don't know how to say something I always thought you could hear every time I said your fucking _name,_ Sirius, it's just – it just doesn't make sense, alright? So – fuck talking, until we've covered the basics. I've got a better idea.”

 _“_ Don't touch me -” Sirius blurts out desperately, hand flung out in warning though James hasn't moved a muscle. “Not now, James – please.”

 _“_ I'm not going to fucking touch you, alright? Fucking hell, I've got feelings too, you know - do you know how much it hurts when you treat me like I'm some kind of – some kind of _threat_ to you?”

Sirius takes the question about as well as a knife in the back, sharpening up like he's been betrayed when any normal person would just feel guilty.

 _“_ I know it's pathetic, alright, you don't have to – do you think I _want_ to be like this? I'm not afraid of _anything –_ it's not bravado, alright, I'm just fucking not, not of anything at all, and you make me afraid of my own fucking _body -_ ”

Frustration collides with this pang of intense, unwelcome, _inappropriate_ desire, and floods his body with prickly, restless heat.

 _“_ I didn't say it was pathetic _,”_ he interrupts through gritted teeth. _“_ I said it fucking _hurts_ me _._ You see, this is why I can't talk to you, you can't even hear me, can you, through all that bullshit in your head? Now, do I have to sit through another monologue about how wanting me is the worst thing that's ever happened to you _,_ or will you shut the fuck up and let me fucking _finish?”_

Sirius narrows his eyes like there's a hex on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth snaps shut all the same.

 _Good boy,_ James thinks, before he can help it.

_Oh – shit._

This is the worst time – this is literally the worst fucking time to be thinking like that. This might well be the worst timed thought he's ever had, maybe even worse than that weird, mad moment when Lily was leaving him and all he could think about was the fact that she'd got no knickers on. At least he wasn't about to ask _her_ to have a look around his dirty, muddled mind in the hope of proving a point.

He clears his throat and tries to think about literally anything that isn't related to sex. It's hard in the way that it is to take the first step off a high ledge, like his brain has turned as stupid as any other muscle can when faced with the prospect of freefall. It's not fear – he's not scared of falling, or of needing Sirius, for that matter – just a reflexive spasm of resistance to such an absolute loss of control.

 _“_ Alright,” he says, taking the plunge. “Here's the plan -”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He's wanted to do legilimency with Sirius for longer than he's been able to pronounce it, and Sirius has been refusing to even discuss it since he rolled his eleven-year old eyes and told James he was saying it wrong_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, sorry for the delayed update (and for not replying to comments sooner!) - I've had a few problems with both my health and this bloody chapter. Thanks so much to anyone still reading :-)
> 
> No warnings, I don't think. Underage drinking, I suppose, and flagrant misuse of legilimency.

  **9.**

 

 

 _“_ Terms of engagement?”

James has heard it countless times; the rote phrase suggested by _'An Introduction to Ethical Legilimency_ ' in its long, tedious section on boundaries. Every single mind-to-mind interaction he's ever had has been preceded by it, thanks to Pembleton's insistence on the damn Negotiation Phase, and he complained about it often enough that the others still think it's hilarious to interject it into conversation just to wind him up. He's heard it over and over and over again, and it's far from the first time he's heard Sirius say it, but it is the first time he's ever heard Sirius say it to _him._

He's wanted to do legilimency with Sirius for longer than he's been able to pronounce it, and Sirius has been refusing to even _talk_ about it since he rolled his eleven-year old eyes and told James he was saying it wrong. He'd naturally assumed an aversion to the whole concept was responsible, right up to the point where Sirius turned his back on him to start negotiating fucking boundaries with stupid bastard _Bones_. Every day for three months, Sirius let other people touch his mind, and even now it makes his fists clench just to think about the fact that he wasn't _first,_ never mind the part where he's not allowed in _at all._

 _“_ What?” Sirius demands. “What have I done now?”

 _“_ It's not you,” he says hastily. “There's no problem, I was just thinking.”

 _“_ Well, then, can you think a bit fucking faster?”

Right, yes, he was supposed to be thinking about his actual terms. He hadn't really anticipated that Sirius would ask for any, and it's hard to think of any limits that he actually wants to impose. It's like trying to think of a part of his body that he wouldn't want Sirius to touch – the whole idea is just alien, laughable. Still, Sirius wouldn't have asked just to be proper; he must want some kind of guidance, some kind of structure to work with.

 _“_ Alright, terms. No depth limit, obviously – I want you to know everything I was thinking and feeling, that's the whole point. I want you to see exactly what you look like through my eyes. No red lines, but I'll give you some parameters. Leave it be if it's not about you; start no earlier than when we met and move forward – keep it linear, if you can, it drives me nuts when people go backwards in there. Actually, yeah, I tell you what, that's probably the best way to do this; start where we met, and finish with something from today. Nine memories; one for every year I've known you, and if you've got any questions about what you _mean_ to me after that, then – well, then we'll talk about it, alright?”

Sirius nods, pale-faced and resolute, steel in his eyes and the line of his jaw like a soldier off to war.

 _“_ What exactly do you want me to look at?”

James could answer that a hundred thousand different ways, but he doesn't have time to weigh up all the options right now. There might not be enough time in the world to find the ideal solution; picking out any one moment which proves that he needs Sirius is like trying to choose which drop of rain best proves that water is wet. There's a time for perfectionism, and then there's the times where it's best just to wing it.

 _“_ Anything you want, Sirius.”

There's no hesitation, no time wasted on _'are you sure?'_ or other stupid questions. There are no questions at all, just a sharp inhalation, a breath held between them as Sirius aims his wand at him. Grey eyes narrowing, nostrils flared, that rattlesnake tension in the flex of his wrist – poised, deadly, perfect.

_I love you._

It's not a soft thought. It doesn't even feel like a _human_ thought. It feels like it's going to burst out of his head the way his antlers do, remaking his skeleton around it. It feels like he'll have to change shape just to keep the weight of it from breaking his neck.

 _“_ Sirius, I – ”

The thought explodes into shrapnel, language blown to bits in the blast of collision as Sirius' mind crashes into his.

Blackness, deep-space darkness, sudden scorching light.

And then the breach – another consciousness pushing inside him, penetrating his mind. His guard-reflex sparks; his brain feels like a fist, this clenched up tightness in his skull that's only good for fighting.

 _Relax,_ he tells his brain. _Relax, relax, it's Sirius -_

Sirius doesn't wait for him to relax.

Sirius breaks through walls that would have bowed for him like grass-stems in the wind and sprung back up as good as new, reducing them to rubble rather than wait for half a fucking second. It _hurts –_ this raw, too-close, too-pure pain that burns through the receptors in James' brain until it starts to feel like pleasure.

He wants it, he wants _more_ of it.

 _Please,_ he thinks, as loud as he can. _All of it, I need all of you, Sirius, please –_

And then he can't think, he can only remember. No words in his head, no fixed point to think from, no present, no _now._

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's eleven and his nose is bleeding, and he wants to scream and laugh and run in circles. He's angry and excited and bouncing on the balls of his feet, because he's just learned that he does have a twin after all, and his twin is an absolute prat.

 

-

 

He's twelve, scuffing up gravel and dragging his feet as he follows his parents towards the big country house where his second cousin's getting married. He tugs at the itchy woollen cuffs of his dress robes, getting ready for a few hours of boredom before they get to the good bit, where everyone starts cheering and laughing and having fun, and he's allowed to run around and dance and eat cake. He stops to hook a pebble out of his shoe, and he hears gravel crunch and shift under light, running feet and his heart jumps, and he tackles Sirius and laughs into his face and throws gravel all over his hair like confetti. And he can't believe it – Sirius is here! Even though he wasn't allowed to ask him to come, and it's July, and he thought he'd have to wait for ages and ages and ages to see him again.

 _“_ How did you do it? How did you get here? How did you know where to come? I can't ever work out where you are, I've tried heaps of times – go on, show me how you do it – ”

Sirius bites his wrist and rolls them over, laughing and grappling with him when he tries to bite back.

 _“_ How, Sirius? How, tell me, go on – ugh, no, don't lick me – ”

 _“_ I'm here for the same reason you are, you idiot, not because I knew _you'd_ be here. ”

Disappointment, shrugged off as he wipes his spit-sticky hand on Sirius' funny ponytail. He tugs at the green silk ribbon and Sirius' hair comes loose –

_(The memory flickers and he holds onto it, pushing it back into Sirius' hands, not sure why or even how. It's a sliver of control, of a self that can think and decide and wants, for some reason, to stay in that day. He's trying to explain something, but he's too scattered and mangled and high on pain to work out what it is. Sirius is so deep now, deeper than memory, touching his every thought, and James is unravelling into twelve-year old headspace – )_

Same day, different light – peachy-soft and warm, too richly gold to be real. Late afternoon, bubbles sparkling in the glass the bride is sipping from. The same bubbles fizzing in James' throat and chest and head, making him feel light and hot and slightly queasy; he's not supposed to have more than a taste, but Sirius is here, and he just poured it right into James' goblet, and all the grown ups have had too much of it to even notice. The shared secret is worth a bit of puking, if it comes to that. The giddy rush every time he meets Sirius' eyes as one of them takes a swig – yeah, he could puke for a week and this would still be worth it.

 _“_ This pumpkin juice really is tasty,” he says, wide-eyed and innocent and licking his lips like a little kid. “Don't you think, Sirius? We should have this stuff at our wedding.”

Adults coo and titter on either side of him, but he doesn't care about being patronized right now, because Sirius should be poker-faced and laughing with his eyes, but he's not – he's scowling and untangling his feet from between James', tucking them under his chair out of reach.

 _“_ Don't be childish.”

 _“_ It's not childish,” James says, indignant. “It's grown up, getting married – we're not even allowed to do it until we're of age. I'm planning ahead, unlike you, so I don't see how I'm the one being bloody childish – ”

 _“_ You're not planning anything, you're talking stupid childish nonsense. You obviously can't handle your pumpkin juice so just shut up and drink some water like a good little boy – ”

James kicks Sirius' chair, sloshing champagne all down his sleeve with an angry sweeping gesture that sends bread rolls skidding down the table and makes his dad give him The Look.

 _“_ I won't marry you at all if you don't – ”

 _“_ I don't want you to marry me! You're not going to marry me no matter what, so stop acting like you're six and – ”

 _“_ What do you mean you don't want to? Why would you not want to? I'm your favourite person, same as you're mine. You don't love anyone more than me, so –”

 _“_ Shut up!” Sirius hisses, eyes darting left, flicking from Bellatrix to his father and then back to James again. “Don't say that stuff in front of other people. In fact, stop saying it at all – I'm not a bloody girl, James. I'm not going to play house with you and call you 'darling' and live happily ever after – that's not what I'm for, alright? I'm for friend stuff, save the rest of it for someone else.”

Hurt, baffled, queasy. Bubbles popping in his stomach, sour heat rushing up his throat. Swallowing hard, swaying slightly. Feeling silly, childish, embarrassed. Knowing on some level that Sirius is right, that Sirius couldn't fit in that picture in his head, that Sirius wouldn't be happy in that house he wants to live in.

 

-

 

Thirteen, midnight, in their secret den. Palms slit open and blood smeared together, licking each other's hands clean. His slippery fingers pushing into Sirius' mouth, blood pulsing onto his tongue as he sucks at Sirius' wound. Rich raw-meat taste, bloodier than blood that's just his. Sharp teeth biting into his knuckles, redness dripping down Sirius' chin, feral mad-dog smile; human tethers broken, day-self left behind at the edge of the forest; an animal in boy-skin, just like him.

_(Pain spiking, star-heat inside his head, Sirius slicing in deeper, stabbing his way into the nerve-centre of his brain.)_

 

-

 

It's the first day of fourth year, and they haven't been alone together since the end of last term. James has spent all day wanting to snarl at anyone who makes Sirius look away from him for more than five seconds. Even the tiny smile he caught Lily hiding when he made that magnificent pun had to be filed away for later, because bloody Remus had to go and ruin the moment by agreeing to let Sirius touch his bloody new scar.

It's been more than an hour since the lights went out, and Sirius still hasn't come to him. Peter started snoring ten minutes ago, and there's no possible explanation remaining for Sirius' failure to slip between the gap in his curtains and climb into his bed. He's had about enough of lying here waiting like some loser who's been stood up by his date. Sirius is not allowed to stand him up, this is not supposed to be the kind of thing that either one of them could even conceive of being _late_ for. This is supposed to be fucking _sacred_. This is a part of what makes the whole question of finding a name for what they are to one another such a nice, safe non-issue. It never has to matter if 'brother' or 'best friend' feel slightly off or incomplete, as long as they're just codewords, public ways to describe something indescribably private. As long as Sirius knows how vast the gap between 'brother' and 'twin' really is, and stays on the side where he'll always belong, it doesn't matter that they always use the wrong word. But what is he supposed to do if Sirius _doesn't_ know? 'Brother' is the strongest tether he's got – it's not like he can actually say all the twin stuff out loud. He's fourteen for fuck's sake, and the one time he ever _has_ said it, Sirius rolled his eyes and laughed and called him an 'idiot child' even though they were literally fucking _eleven._

What is he supposed to do if Sirius starts acting like he's the same kind of brother as Regulus? What good is the word if it can allow for that kind of distance? The whole damn point of it is that it's supposed to guarantee permanent, unparalleled closeness without ever competing with 'wife'.

This won't do, it won't do at all. He's given him ages now – Sirius can hardly claim that he didn't give him a chance to do the right thing. He marches over to Sirius' bed and yanks the curtains open with an impatient tug.

Sirius is facing away from him, scrunched up in a ball on top of the duvet, still fully dressed. He looks too small – sort of compressed, like there's some invisible fist closed tight around his body, like he was warped into that shape rather than choosing it for himself.

_There's something wrong._

It's less a thought that a skipped heartbeat, a spasm of protective impulse that has him reaching out before the second half of the realization hits –

_You're trying to hide it from me._

A hot angry flare in his gut. A different, darker impulse – the same feeling from the opposite direction. Grabbing now, when he reached out to hold; fingers clenching around Sirius' shoulder, tugging him onto his back.

 _“_ What the hell are you – what, wait, Sirius, you're _crying – ”_

He's _never_ seen Sirius cry, not even once. He's never seen him look so _messy,_ so normal-mortal-boy; splotchy tear-slick cheeks, puffy screwed-shut eyes, runny nose – just like anyone else. It's all wrong, and it's fascinating, and James doesn't know what to do with it at all. He goes with his first, least confusing instinct, and rolls on top of Sirius. Full-body contact after so long apart is fucking overwhelming, and he gets about two seconds of pure physical euphoria before Sirius bucks and shoves and scrambles out from underneath him. Not just pulling but _wrenching_ away from him, and James is not fucking _having_ it. He grabs him by the hair and hauls him close again, trapping him chest-to-back with an arm hooked around his throat. Sirius freezes, breath sobbing in his throat, gasping “ _no, no, no”_ like he doesn't know he's doing it.

 _“_ Shh, it's me, it's me,” James whispers urgently, mouth against the nape of Sirius' neck. “Relax, Sirius, calm _down.”_

He's not asking, he's _telling_ , and Sirius does as he's told – just _relaxes_ , just like that.

 _Wow,_ he thinks. And, at the same time; _I knew it, I knew that I could._

 _“_ You're alright,” he says. “You're alright, Sirius, it's okay now.”

_I can make things be okay. I can make you alright just by telling you to be._

_“_ Shut up,” Sirius growls, but he's still relaxed, so it doesn't matter what he _says._ “I'm not a fucking _child,_ stop trying to – to – ”

 _“_ Comfort you?” he says, teasing just a little bit.

 _“_ Ugh, fuck _off – ”_

James laughs, and kisses the back of his neck to make him fake-shudder with fake-revulsion. What on earth was he worrying about earlier? He must have been out of his mind – of course Sirius _knows_ what they really are. What they say out loud doesn't matter at all; Sirius rejects the word  'comfort' but every bone in that warm, relaxed body knows that's what's going on. Sirius can use 'fuck off' to mean both 'go away' and 'please stay close', just like 'brother' can mean both 'Regulus' and 'James'.

He kisses Sirius' neck again, because it's nice, and he's happy, and Sirius' hair smells really good.

 _“_ Don't,” says Sirius, and he actually means _don't stop._ “James, stop that, it's weird.”

He doesn't _want_ to. He likes the way Sirius' skin feels against his mouth, the weird buzz of it on his tongue when he licks the highest notch of his spine. Sirius shivers, and he likes the way that feels, too, likes how close they're pressed together. And it's safe to like this, it must be, because Sirius isn't for any of the things that would make this _weird._

 _“_ No, it isn't. We're brothers, aren't we? It's not like you're a girl.”

 

_**-** _

 

_(Everything accelerating, memories shooting like stars through his eye-sockets, searing flashes of Sirius mid-laugh, mid-gesture, turning towards him, pulling away. It hurts, it's too much to feel so much all at once and this is one year, just one, and there are so many, how is he supposed to get through this? He thinks pick one please pick one slow down -)_

_-_

 

Fifteen, watching a girl watch Sirius. Poor thing – she's alright looking, but she's hardly in Sirius' league. There's no way Sirius is even going to notice her longing looks, never mind look at her back. Sirius never looks back at any of them. She can write his surname in all the little hearts she likes – Sirius is never going to give it to her.

 _He's never going to marry you,_ he thinks at her, smiling sympathetically. _He wouldn't even marry me – he's never going to marry anyone._

 

-

 

He's sixteen, in his pyjamas in his parent's living room, and Sirius is stepping over the threshold and into his arms, hugging him with that fierce pressing closeness he's been missing for what feels like forever.

He can't say it out loud, Sirius won't like it, but he knows he doesn't need to;

_'You won't ever have nothing; I'll be everything you need. You won't ever be alone; your family gets bigger every time mine does, and this will always be your place in it – this close to me.'_

He knows Sirius can hear him, maybe more clearly than if he'd used words. Sirius can always hear him when he speaks in their true shared language – action, gesture, touch.

_(Pulled back, resisting – deeper, he wants Sirius as deep inside the other half of this memory as he can go, wants to share every intricate process of thought.)_

It's just gone four am, and the sky is fading from black to navy blue outside the open windows of his bedroom. The air is thick and humid, and there's this heat-haze blur to everything, like the whole world is as gently stoned as he is. He's singing his tongue on the tail end of a joint, blowing lazy smoke rings and watching Sirius sleep.

Sirius is lying on his back with one arm flung over his eyes, wearing James' t-shirt and James' boxers, kicking James' duvet off James' bed – inhabiting his things, his world, and this is how it's going to be every day now. No gaps, no waiting, no making do with late-night mirror-talking. Sirius lives here now. Sirius lives with him, at last, the way it always should have been.

His mind simmers with plans for tomorrow, and the day after, and all the other days that will start and finish with Sirius. He can show him the abandoned muggle farm down the road – Sirius will be able to get the tractor to do whatever the hell a tractor is supposed to do, and they'll make the rusted old machines fight and race and fly. They can sit on the slanted roof of the barn and smoke the rest of that weed Sirius brought with him. He wonders again what possessed Sirius to detour for that, to think he had to bring him something other than himself.

He wants to wake Sirius up and tell him that this is the best night of his life, but Sirius is more tired than James has ever seen him, and it took hours to get him to stay still for long enough to fall asleep. He decides that he'll tell him tomorrow, on the roof – there'll be a breeze, tomorrow, and it'll catch in Sirius' hair and there'll be drifting coils of smoke between them. It'll be a good moment. No condolences, no 'that's too bad', no sympathy – Sirius doesn't want it, and James doesn't feel any, not about this. Sirius is free at last, and here in the bright, warm real world where he belongs, and that's not something to be sorry for, it's a cause for joy and pride and celebration.

There's a song in his head, an old quidditch-chant with half the words swapped out for 'mine'. Of all the little ear-worm ditties his brain has composed in his own honour, this is by far the most persistent; it's been there since midnight, when he leaned out the window and saw the expression on Sirius' face. He's not sure it's ever going away – this is, after all, not just a moment of triumph but the most lasting, permanent, important sort of victory. This is the end of the war – the pretenders defeated, his birthright restored, his claim now uncontested. He is Sirius' family, and now the whole world has to recognize it, to acknowledge his dominion. The outcome was inevitable, really; the hero always beats the villains in the end. It's never a surprise when the rightful king is crowned, but then, it's not supposed to be; the giddy high of a happy ending stems from anticipation, from waiting for something with baited breath and finally seeing it happen.

He doesn't have to marry Sirius to make it official, to set it in stone and seal the deal forever – where he goes, Sirius goes. They are fully conjoined now, properly inseparable.

When Lily agrees to a date for their wedding that isn't 'when hell freezes over', everything will be in its right place. He will live with her in that house he's always wanted, and Sirius will never worry about becoming a guest. It won't matter that Sirius is too wild and strange and unusual to want to stay there all the time; he can have his own little lair, his bachelor pad, that he can do up however he likes. It will be a private space, just for him and James; somewhere to go when they want to indulge in a bit of good old fashioned mischief, somewhere to take the parts of themselves that are a bit too rough and ready for the home that Lily lives in. They'll go there when it's three am and they've had a few too many, and they'll talk in the way they can only do when they're alone. Some of the time, Sirius will be there without him, doing his own thing while James is alone with Lily, and that will be alright. Sirius will go roaming by himself, and James will paint the house with Lily, and she will be wearing green knickers and his Harpies t-shirt, and they'll squabble and laugh and get more paint on each other than the walls, and she will throw her pale, freckled arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, and he will be all there, all hers, like he should be, because he'll never have to worry again that beings hers means losing any part of Sirius.

He peels a lock of sweat-damp hair away from Sirius' mouth, and lets his hand linger, sweeping two callused fingertips over the generous curve of Sirius' lower lip.

Sirius _moans_. Low, soft, not the kind of sound you can mistake for anything else. Lips moving under James' fingers, murmuring _'please'_ and mouthing at them in this needy, _wanton_ way, tongue lapping at the tips as he sucks them into his mouth.

 _“Oh,”_ James breathes, and he means “ _oh, fuck”_ and “ _oh, wow”_ and _“oh, yes, of course”_ all at the same time. “You _want – ”_

He knew all along and he didn't know at all, didn't let himself _see_ it. And now he can't _not_ see it, and he's staring at Sirius' mouth, his fingers inside Sirius' mouth, and he's supposed to be withdrawing them but what he appears to be doing is sliding them out and then in again. And it's like something out of fucking _porn,_ it's like he's _fucking_ Sirius' mouth. And he _could,_ he could actually _do_ that. With his cock, not his fingers, he could push his cock into Sirius' mouth just like that, in and out, and Sirius would let him, Sirius would _like_ it –

 _“_ Shit,” he hisses, tugging his fingers out of that wet, hot mouth before everything can come unravelled. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He _can't_ , he really can't. He's going to marry Lily, this is Lily stuff. He can't marry her and fuck Sirius, that would be unthinkable – they both get all of him, that's the deal, they both get whole but _different_ versions of him, and they never, ever, ever compete.

 _You're not married yet,_ says a nasty little voice in his head. _She hasn't even agreed to go out with you yet._

He recoils from the thought, unwilling to examine it closely enough to figure out which of the two unconscionable propositions that bastard in his head is trying to make. He can't not marry Lily, and he can't _leave_ Sirius for Lily, and he can't ever be in a position where he has to choose between them. It would be the worst of all possible worlds – he could never _not_ choose Sirius, and he knows in his gut that he'd end up hating him for it. That would be worse than anything; the loss of Lily, and that house, and all that golden future happiness couldn't compare what it would be like to look at Sirius and see only that loss. To fuck him and know that wanting to fuck him so badly was the reason he lost everything; to _blame_ him for this moment, for wanting him and making him want – it would destroy them. It would poison the purest thing he'll ever have.

He wipes Sirius' spit off his fingers, drying them on the sheets instead of putting them in his own mouth like he wants to. Impulses, instincts, those are great, but he's been figuring out this year that every now and then, they need to be kept in check. The trick is to keep an eye on the big picture. He closes his eyes, and pictures the future until he can see the bubbles sparkling in Lily's glass, the light in Sirius' eyes as he causes a scandal with his best man's speech. He sees the three of them, posed for a photograph; him in the middle, one arm around Lily's waist and one around Sirius' shoulders, beaming as he draws them closer.

 

_-_

 

_(The picture blackens around the edges, the memory itself burning up, and his mind is blistering, melting away, his life flashing behind his eyes. Too fast, too many things at once, too many eyes seeing the same fine-boned ever-changing face. Sirius at sixteen and nineteen and every age between; different every time and always the same, always the thing James most loves to look at. There's no control now, no stopping or slowing down or thinking. Sirius tears through his memories like he's taking his teeth to them, ripping them open and unravelling what's inside like he won't believe the need is real until it's bleeding all over his tongue. No pretence at being a guest now – no structure, no parameters – plundering, ravaging, ruining his mind. Wanting him so much, Sirius wanting everything he has, everything he is – wanting him so much he's going to fucking destroy him. He's going to come apart, to explode, and there'll be nothing inside him but Sirius, and he wants that, he wants it so much, he wants it more than anything –_

_Pain beyond pain, beyond pleasure; the last inner wall smashed, and then impact, Sirius crashing into his core – heat and force enough to fuse or split. This shattering blow like the fist of some jealous god bent on humbling him, pounding his ego into dust, and then scattering, falling in bright pieces like a broken mirror.)_

He opens his eyes and Sirius looks out of them, and he's not gone at all, not disintegrated and demolished – he's right here, they're one person. Sirius moves his mouth, and it's not strange or wrong at all; of course Sirius can speak with his voice, it's _their_ voice. Their throat, their mouth, their tongue. Their hand rubbing their eyes, looking up at – wait, that's Sirius' body, and suddenly they don't _agree,_ suddenly they're not one but two minds in one head, and that head is his, and Sirius is moving it. His muscles won't answer him, they're answering _Sirius_ – his body is answering Sirius and not him. He feels impossibly light – his weight isn't his any more, it's Sirius', and it feels good; he feels clean and pure, so bright and loved and safe –

And then he's _gone,_ slipping out of his mind with all the softness that was absent from his entry, and if James could speak he would beg him to push back in and stay there forever. If he could move, he would crawl on his hands and knees and kiss Sirius' feet and say _no, no, please, take everything,_ and it's terrifying and not him and he's falling all alone through the mangled mess of his mind -

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _“James,_ ” says Sirius' voice, and it's outside his head, and they're separate. He is only himself, he is a separate person, and it's so fucking _lonely -_

Sirius' hands touch his face, and he opens his eyes. He's on his back, and Sirius is bent over him, all tumbling black hair and worshipful eyes, whispering “ _James, James,”_ like it's the only word he remembers.

He's himself, he's James Potter, this body is his and only his; not a vessel, not a sheath for the keen, cutting blade of Sirius' mind.

They're separate, and that's _good –_ it's good to have his own hands back, to be able to reach up and tug Sirius down on top of him, to clutch and press and hold. To feel warmth and weight, skin on skin, to feel Sirius' bones and breath and heartbeat – no transcendent fusing of souls could be worth the loss of this, not ever.

 _“_ That's enough, it's enough now, it's okay. I shouldn't have – I'm sorry, James, I didn't mean to hurt you, I didn't – ”

 _“_ Shh – you haven't, it's alright. I wanted you to do it, so don't be sorry, you idiot, just tell me that you _understand_.”

 _“_ I do, I do,” says Sirius urgently, clinging to him, mouth against his neck so the words feel like kisses. “I did after – at your house, I should have stopped after that. I always wondered _when_ , you know? When you worked it out, what I did wrong, when I lost – but I didn't, and that was all I needed to – I should have stopped. We could have – I should have just asked you. I just – you decided not to want me so, so I just, I needed to know if you – ”

 _“_ Of course I do,” he says, tangling a hand in Sirius' hair and laughing himself at the sheer lunacy of the idea that this could come as any kind of revelation. “Of course - you fucking idiot, how could you not _know?”_

Sirius doesn't even try to answer that, just nuzzles at his ear and laughs again and gets James' neck all wet with his tears. He doesn't seem to care that he's crying, doesn't seem like there's anything left in him that remembers the tethers of self-consciousness or shame. James wants to see his face – wants to watch Sirius cry in a way that has less to do with latent sadism than with the joy of finding something that he lost without even seeing it leave. The hand snarled up in Sirius' hair clenches and pulls his head away from the crook of his shoulder with a firm tug, and Sirius doesn't resist at all, doesn't look at all embarrassed when he moans low in his throat and tilts his head back into James' touch.

 _“_ Look at me,” James says, his voice gone hoarse and kind of reverent. “Open your eyes.”

Sirius does, and they're bright as beacons and hiding nothing and yes, fuck, that's it – this is what he lost – unfettered access to the pure, bold, fearless heart of him that loves and wants and trusts without borders or limits. When did Sirius stop looking at him like this? Why? Was there a moment, like the one Sirius was looking for in his mind – was there something _he_ did wrong? It doesn't matter – it doesn't have to matter any more, because they're alright again, they're finally, properly _them,_ the way they're always supposed to be.

 _“_ Do it back,” says Sirius, close enough that their noses nudge together. “Do it to me.”

 _“_ It's alright – I don't need to.”

Sirius kisses him – just does it, like there's nothing between impulse and action, not the smallest sliver of time or thought between the spark of desire and the hungry push of his tongue into James' mouth. His lips are rough and cracked and he tastes of blood, and James' brain tingles like his skull is full of stardust when their tongues curl together, his hand tightening in Sirius' hair as his body lights up from the inside. Sirius moans, his mouth gone soft and pliant against James', and falls into him a bit as the arm he's got bracing himself buckles. Their teeth clash and they both laugh, which only makes things clumsier, and he tugs Sirius up out of the kiss when he nicks his tongue on the jagged tip of an incisor. He means to say _ow, you bastard_ but Sirius is not laughing any more but looking at him with this burning, unabashed _need,_ and his eyes still have that tear-shine to them, and his mouth is swollen, and his bottom lip is bleeding yet again, and all that comes out is _“Fuck.”_

Sirius smiles this dazzling new smile that he's never seen before, and James thinks again how good it is to be separate people - how exciting, and dangerous, and full of surprises.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His fingertips buzz and hum when they touch Sirius' mouth, the thrum of pent-up power so intense that he's positive Sirius can feel it too._
> 
>  
> 
> (er... resolved sexual tension?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's been a while, hasn't it? I've not had much chance to work on this thing lately, and this has ended up as more of a smutty interlude than a proper chapter, I'm afraid. 
> 
> CN: d/s vibes, light painplay, rough oral, possessiveness, dirty talk, rampant egomania.

  **10.**

 

 

James wants to speed up and slow down at the same time. He wants to split into two whole selves; one to rush headlong into the future and one to just lie here forever, side by side with Sirius on the bedroom floor. Studying and being studied; reuniting properly at last. Knees bumping, almost nose to nose, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Sirius' half naked body. So close, but not quite pressed together. Not quite yet. Waiting, watching each other, tense and unblinking like animals circling before a fight.

There's a challenge in Sirius' eyes; _'it's your move.'_

That's right, it is. It's his turn now.

His fingertips buzz and hum when they touch Sirius' mouth, the thrum of pent-up power so intense that he's positive Sirius can feel it too.

It's been so long _._ It's been years – fucking _years –_ since he touched him like this. It's been forever, really, because this time it's different. This time there's no limit to what he can mean by it. There are no more lines, no more reasons to hold back. He's not that boy who chose not to want. He's nothing that boy ever planned for. He's something else now, and he couldn't stop wanting Sirius if his fucking life depended on it.

Sirius' lips part for him, just like they did when he was sixteen. It's so familiar his nerves sing with sense-memory – the hot stutter of breath, the way “ _please”_ feels against the pads of his fingers. It feels the same, for a second, but it's not the same at all. Sirius' eyes are open, watching him intently, dark and hungry and knowing. It's deliberate, this time. Sirius is saying it on purpose _._ Smiling, wicked and pleased, like the word is a private joke. Like it also means ' _I dare you.'_

James' breath stops and his heart spasms, and every atom of his body seems to spark and shake and twitch.

This is really happening. It's happening right fucking _now._

He really can do anything he wants, and he can want _anything at all._

He wants to do everything. All of it, all at the same time. He wants to touch Sirius in every way that's possible and some that don't even make sense. Outside and inside, gentle and rough, light enough to tickle and hard enough to bruise. He wants to take him apart and rebuild him exactly the same; to feel his bones between his teeth, and suck on his heart, and lick the shadows from under his eyes. He wants to fill him up and swallow him whole, wants to taste and mark and memorize every fucking inch of him.

Shit, fuck, what does he want to do _first?_

 _“_ James...”

His name sounds like a god's name. He wants to hear it again and again and again. He wants to make Sirius repeat it until his throat is raw and his voice is broken and his tongue forgets the shape of every other word.

He drags his fingers over Sirius' split lower lip, tugging at it, probing the wound and painting his gasping mouth glossy red with his own blood.

 _“_ Fucking _hell_ , Sirius. You're so – you look fucking unreal, do you know that?”

Sirius shivers and laughs at the same time, suddenly all mortal again – startled and pleased and appealingly flustered.

 _“James,_ don't be _– mm!”_

James grins, heat flaring through him at the shocked, garbled sound Sirius makes around his fingers when he shoves them in deeper. Gagging him, shutting him up – fuck yes, he's dreamed about this. Just for a moment, though. Just to know what it feels like, and to watch Sirius choke and glare and fucking love it. Just to prove that he _can._ He doesn't really want to silence him – he's had enough silence from Sirius to last a fucking lifetime. Teeth graze his knuckles as he slides his fingers out, and fuck, he could do this all night. But no, he's too impatient, he can't wait – he wants too many other things. He wants to hear Sirius' voice. He wants Sirius to _talk_ to him.

 _“_ Say it again,” he urges, slippery fingers roaming over Sirius' face, free hand tangling roughly in his hair.

Sirius licks his lips, shifting closer.

 _“_ Say what?”

His hand clenches tight in Sirius' hair, holding him back when he tries to kiss him.

 _“_ You know what.”

Sirius' lips quirk, mischief flashing in his eyes. “Don't be soft?”

 _“_ Fucking _– ”_ James cuts off, smiling too much to speak properly, yanking vengefully at Sirius' hair. “My _name,_ you fuck. Say my fucking name.”

Sirius just fucking _laughs._ Laughs at him, like he's the most absurd, unexpected, brilliant joke in all the world.

 _“_ You ridiculous – James _,_ you daft, vain git, I can't believe how much I've fucking _missed_ you.”

James kisses him – he'd have to be dead not to kiss him. If he was dead, he'd come back. He'd come alive again just to kiss that fucking laughing bastard. Just to hear Sirius say “ _I missed you”_ – the actual words themselves. They burn through his mind as he sucks and bites at Sirius' lip, repeating again and again as his knee pushes between Sirius' legs. Pressing closer, feeling him, so close, so hard _–_ fuck, Sirius is so fucking _hard_ for him.

_I missed you, I missed you._

He's never needed to hear it, no, but fucking hell, he's _wanted._ Since they first met, since the moment he found him, he's wanted Sirius to admit to feeling it too. And now he _will –_ not just this, but all of it. Sirius is trembling, bleeding all over his tongue, rubbing up against his hip like he just can't help it – so willing, so incredibly _eager_. Fuck yes, Sirius will say anything now. Sirius will tell him everything he's ever wanted to hear; everything he knows, and all the things he doesn't _._ No more open secrets. No secrets at all, not ever again, not _ever._

 _“_ How much?” James breaks the kiss, panting, too turned on and too fucking happy to breathe. “Tell me – go on – how _much_ did you miss me?”

He pulls back a bit, shifts his hips away, denying himself that hot, perfect _pressure_ just for a moment. Just long enough to get a good look at what he's done to Sirius with just one fucking kiss _._ His cock throbs at the sight, thickening despite the loss of contact. Sirius looks so _dazed,_ so totally out of it _._ Eyes shut tight, bruised mouth slack and speechless. Not made for answering questions; made to be _used_. Made for James to use.

Fuck – he can say it now. He can think it out loud.

_“Mine.”_

Sirius flushes, tensing, biting his lip until the tips of his teeth are all bloody. Holds himself still, near-vibrating with the effort. Doesn't deny it – doesn't even _try._

 _“_ Yeah,” James breathes, reeling from the power rush. “All mine, aren't you, Padfoot? Always, yeah, and I've always known, so come on, tell me. Fucking _say_ it.”

For a long, charged second there's nothing but silence, stillness, anticipation. Sirius is going to do it, he's actually going to say it –

Then Sirius opens his eyes, and suddenly he doesn't look dazed at all. No, he looks fully alert – fiendishly intense and fucking _defiant._

 _“_ Make me.”

Want spikes, spears brutally through James' body. That fierce, competitive spark burns hotter and brighter than ever before; adrenaline, aggression, the all-consuming need to _win_.

He grabs Sirius and rolls on top of him, and Sirius makes this wounded, wanting sound, and grabs him right back.

Sirius attacks his mouth with frantic, biting kisses, and surges up against him, tearing at his robes and clawing at his neck. All bared teeth and gouging nails and bucking hips; fighting him, just for the hell of it. Hot and lithe and – fuck – _escaping._ Sirius is escaping his hold and tumbling him onto his back and crashing into him. And Sirius' weight is bearing down on him, Sirius' leg is between his thighs, oh _fuck_ , Sirius' cock is grinding up against his through all these layers of muffling fabric.

James groans; part relief, part desperate frustration. He fists his hands in Sirius' t-shirt, tugging him down and lunging up to meet him. Needing to kiss him, needing him closer. Needing more of that clumsy, rough, indelicate friction. His mouth collides with Sirius', and Sirius moans and ruts against him and – _ow –_ bites his fucking tongue. Sharp teeth sinking viciously deep, pain shocking through tender flesh. Red mist, reflex taking over. He seizes hold of Sirius' hair, wrenching his head back hard enough to make him yelp. His tongue throbs, his heart is pounding. Bloodlust, love – he's going to burst. Sirius' eyes are black with want. Sirius is hissing “ _yessss” –_ that total fucking bastard, that savage, gorgeous _slut._

 _“Mine_ ,” James snarls, fingers twisting tighter. “I'm going to make you _scream_ it.”

Sirius twitches, this whole-body spasm like James has struck him with lightning, and gasps “ _oh, oh, fuck”_ like he's going to fucking _come_. And then he's lunging forward, _growling_ at him; transformed from whore to fucking hellhound in the space of a heartbeat. And James loses his grip, and then they're _really_ fighting, rolling over and over, grappling and wrestling and tangling together.

Sirius' hands are all over him. Clutching, bruising, skewing his glasses and hooking into the the corner of his mouth. Tugging wildly at his hair and his clothes – trying to strip and hold and fight him all at once. Up is down and down is up and Sirius is everywhere – above and below and wrapped tight around him. Sirius is slamming him into the floor in one breath and writhing underneath him in the next. Arching up against him and holding him down. Pulling away and pushing in closer and closer and never close _enough._ Never still – too quick, too restlessly alive to hold onto. Sirius' shoulders are trembling in his hands, and then twisting away out of reach – Sirius' hair is snarled around his fingers, and ripping out in clumps when Sirius tears himself free – Sirius' mouth is gasping into his, and laughing and biting at his jaw as Sirius flips him onto his back again.

 _“_ I – fuck – I bet you _can't – ”_ Sirius says breathlessly, braced on hands and knees above him. “I bet you fucking _anything.”_

What can't he do? He can't _think,_ that's for sure. His mind is gone – he's all bloodbeat and muscle and impulse; a body seething with frustration and euphoria and the wild, vivid pleasure of full-force physical contact.

 _“_ Yes, I can.”

He doesn't need to think to know that much. It doesn't really matter what it is that Sirius thinks he can't do. He's going to show that lovely, goading bastard – he's going to do it, whatever it is. He's going to do everything.

 _“_ No, you ca – ahh!”

Sirius cries out – almost _sobbing_ – and for a second James is too stricken by his own startled want to work out what he's done to cause it. All he did was grab him, his hands aren't anywhere special, they're just clutching at Sirius' sides _._ Just – _oh, yes, of course –_ gripping right under his ribcage. Where Sirius is all bruised up, underneath that damn t-shirt. Where he's injured – Sirius is _injured_. He must be sore, after all this violent exertion. Really, really sore. Oh, fuck yes, Sirius must be _aching._

 _“_ Hurts, does it?” James says hoarsely, digging his fingers in.

Sirius moans, eyes slammed shut as he shudders and gasps.

 _“Oh –_ I – fuck you – ”

How can a person be so difficult and so fucking easy all at once? How can a person _look_ like that?

Time turns slow and sticky as he slips his hands under Sirius' t-shirt, stroking up the sleek curve of his waist and curling around his sides. Sirius is quivering above him like a bowstring pulled too tight, and everything is humming now; the throb of power in James' blood is so strong he can feel the floor pulsing with it, like the whole flat is vibrating around them. He feels his way to the ripple of bones under buzzing, sweat-damp skin, and his fingers settle in the shallow dips between Sirius' ribs, and he squeezes, good and hard.

 _“_ Am I hurting you, Sirius?”

 _“_ You – _oh,_ you _–_ yes – no – ”

He does it again, harder and slower. Hands clenching tight, kneading at those lean, coiled, _tender_ muscles. The air is so thick it's unbreathable. It's lucky, really, that gods feed on power, rather than oxygen.

 _“_ Which is it?” he teases, repeating that brutal, lingering grip. “Yes or no?”

 _“Yes_ – fuck, yes, _yes,_ but not _enough – ”_

Fucking hell _,_ this is _insane._ Sirius is in such a fucking state _,_ and they're not even touching below the waist. They're hardly even touching at all, and James has never been this hard in his whole fucking _life._ His clothes are driving him mad – his cock is straining, aching with the confinement, twitching against clinging cotton every time his fingers tighten their grip.

 _“_ Oh, you want _more_ , do you?”

He couldn't help sounding smug if he tried – but really, why would he want to? Why resist gloating when it makes Sirius bristle and shiver and flush like that? Why not smirk, when just the sound of it in his voice is enough to make Sirius' eyes flare open, heated and hostile and wanting?

 _“_ James – just – _fuck_ , just – ”

One more clench of his fingers, and Sirius is unravelling in his hands – speech fracturing, arms buckling, half falling down on top of him. So close, now. Sirius is so, so close, and moving like he can't control his body, hips pressing down and _oh –_ oh _fuck,_ the heat and weight of him, right on James' cock. Sirius is basically in his _lap._ Shifting – restlessly, _mindlessly,_ like he doesn't even mean to do it. Pressure, friction – his own control fraying – fuck, he could almost _come._ He could lose it completely just from this, he could forget everything except getting their clothes off, every impulse except _closer, closer, more._

He could, but he _won't._ He's not a fucking _virgin._ He can handle a bit of rubbing and grinding and the rough dragging slide of his cock against his clothes and against Sirius' cock and between Sirius' legs and fuck, no, he's not going to think about it. He's not a bloody desperate teenager, he's a grown man – he's a fucking _god,_ isn't he? He must be, to make Sirius look like that, moan like that with just the rhythmic clenching grip of his fingers at his sides. Fuck yes, he can control himself, and he can control _Sirius,_ too. He can give him pain and take it away; he can lie here on his back and still make Sirius submit to him, still make Sirius _beg_.

 _“_ Tell me what you want,” he whispers, one hand straying from Sirius' ribs to pinch and twist at the hard bud of a nipple. It's an almost random impulse – playfully cruel, but mostly just curious. Just seeking distraction the best way he knows how; trying something new _._ It feels brilliant, and it makes Sirius _whimper_ , so he does it again a bit harder. “Go on – ask me for it.”

 _“_ James _–_ _James,_ fuck, just – _”_ Sirius really is sobbing now, choking on the words as they force their way out, rutting against James' cock in this feverish, frantic, _maddening_ way. “I need _–_ oh, fuck, just _do_ something _._ Please, you bastard, _please_ – ”

His grip tightens around Sirius' ribs, and his left hand turns too clumsy to tease, and fuck, his whole body is in mutiny. Heart thrashing madly, limbs gone stupid, cock so hard he wants to fucking scream. Begging – _Sirius –_ the sight of him, the state he's in, the sound of his voice breaking. So hot, so desperate – fuck, he can't think, he can't _think._

 _“_ Please _what_? Do what? I – _fuck_ , you feel so fucking good. I want to do it, want to give it to you, Sirius, tell me what you need – ”

 _“_ I don't _know!”_

Sirius sounds so frustrated – _angry_ , even, like it's the last thing he wanted to say. It's the last thing James was expecting to _hear_ , and he bites his own sore tongue with surprise. The burst of pain is bracing – a sharp tug against the tide of pleasure; a hook to hang a thought on.

 _“_ What do you mean? Come on, you _must_ know. What is it, Sirius? What do you need me to do?”

His left hand is touching Sirius' face now, fingers skimming lightly over flushed cheeks while his other hand clutches and releases and clutches harder, nails raking at hidden bruises. Sirius jerks his head back, hissing like James' hand is a branding iron. Like that gentle little touch hurts more than he can bear. James pursues him, pushing the matter, and Sirius sobs and presses into the touch just as urgently as he tried to escape it. Rubbing his cheek against James' hand in the same mindless, needy way he's rubbing up against his cock.

 _“_ James, please, I don't – hurt me, kiss me, anything _– ”_ Sirius moans, mouth dragging wetly over James' palm, breath hot and damp on James' skin. “Your _hands_ , James, fuck, I – do what you want, please, don't ask, don't _ask_ , just touch me – ”

And fuck, _fuck,_ how long has he waited to hear that? Waited, wanted – forever, always, maybe more than anything. God knows he doesn't _need_ an invitation, but that never stopped the thought of actually, finally getting one from burning through every dream he's ever had about Sirius, from the most innocent and quasi-platonic to the most filthy and graphic and fucking perverse. It doesn't matter that he's already doing it, it doesn't matter that it's vague. The specifics, the details he wanted, none of that matters. Not now, not so soon after hearing “ _don't”_ and watching Sirius recoil and not being allowed to touch him at all _._ Nothing matters, nothing at all except Sirius asking, Sirius begging him, Sirius pleading for his touch.

He doesn't think – just does it. Just presses a hand to the hot, hard bulge in Sirius' boxers. Just touches him, and Sirius arches and shudders and makes this shocked, frantic, wordless sound like it's the first time he's ever been touched. And Sirius' cock jerks against his hand, twitching, pulsing – fuck, Sirius _can't_ be? Wetness soaking through thin cotton – coming, Sirius is _coming –_ really? _Really?_ Just from _that?_

 _“_ Fuck _,_ you're – Sirius, _fuck,_ I made you –”

 _“_ Sorry – shit, _fuck_ – sorry – ”

Sirius is gasping and trembling with aftershock, falling into him, heavy and fever-hot and boneless. James rolls them over, wanting to look, needing to see what he's done. He shoves in close between Sirius' thighs, and his cock throbs and he can't breathe and he laughs with delight when Sirius opens his eyes.

 _“_ Sirius, you're – fuck, look at you, you're such a _mess – ”_

Sirius is too wrecked to even glare at him properly – all shaky and awestruck like he's been ravished by some almighty storm. Just lying there with his legs spread, and his cheeks flushed, and wetness soaking through the front of his boxers _._ Exposed and embarrassed and just so hopelessly, gorgeously _uncool._ And James did that – he did that with _one touch._ He made Sirius come in his pants like a fucking teenager, and it's ridiculous, it's totally mad, it's the sexiest thing in the whole fucking _world._

 _“_ So _sensitive_ ,” he says, teasing and amazed in equal measure. “Everything I do – my voice, my touch, you can't help it, can you? Fuck, I only have to _look_ at you. That's all it takes, isn't it? You should see yourself, Pads, the way you look when you feel my eyes on you. God, fuck, the way you look right now.”

He has to stop talking; there are too many words for the way Sirius looks, and there are none that even come close. He has to stop, because looking just isn't _enough_. He wants to feel it; he wants his fingers dripping with the proof of his unrivalled power. Sirius' skin is hot and slippery-wet, and his softening cock twitches weakly in James' fist when he gives it a curious grope, and it's all so _new._ Every sensation, every reaction he elicits. So _this_ is what it feels like to touch Sirius' cock. This is what Sirius' come feels like, smeared all over his hand. Fuck, it's so _satisfying_. He could do this all night. Stroke him, make him squirm like that, feel him up until he's stiff again. Make him come, over and over, until he's sore and wrung-out and oh, fuck no, James can't do that at all. He can't, because he'll fucking explode. He needs to worry about his own damn cock, not sit around fondling Sirius' and making plans that don't need planning at all.

He squeezes in a gentle, _see you soon_ sort of way, and tugs his hand out of Sirius' boxers. He licks his palm, and Sirius tastes just like he does – bitterness and salt – and it's not exactly _nice_ but he wants to fill his mouth with it, to coat his tongue and flood his throat and never taste anything else.

 _“_ Oh,” says Sirius, choked and wide-eyed. “James... ”

 _“_ Hey,” he grins, leaning in close. “You want some?”

He runs his slippery fingers over Sirius' lips and pushes them inside, back where they belong. Sirius' eyes darken and close, and he sucks his fingers in deeper, right down to the last knuckle, tongue lapping into the web of skin connecting them.

 _“_ Yeah, you like that, don't you?” James says, voice as thick as his blood feels, as thick as the air he can't fucking breathe. “I bet you lick yourself clean every time. I bet you suck on your fingers and think about me, pretend it's _me_ you're tasting.”

Saying it makes him _think_ about it, and the thought spreads like fucking wildfire. Sirius moaning around his own long fingers, thinking about _him._ Thinking about tasting him. Tasting his come. His come in Sirius' mouth. Sirius' lush, slutty mouth, which feels so fucking _wet_ around his fingers, like he's salivating just at the thought of it.

 _“_ Sirius, fuck, you want it so much – ”

His voice goes, choked out like someone's clenched their fist around it. He can't talk, his throat is too tight. Everything is too tight _._ His stupid clothes, his chest, his skin – his whole body is too fucking _tight._ He can't take it. He can't look at Sirius' shiny, swollen lips wrapped around his fingers for a single moment longer. He can't think about what Sirius wants, or what he wants, or how long or how badly either one of them has wanted it. He can't think about it for one more fucking second. No, he needs to _do_ it. He needs to do it _now._

Sirius nips at his fingers when he tugs them out. Like he doesn't want them gone. Like his mouth feels empty without them. Fuck, that's not a helpful thought. Thinking about how blatantly, obscenely fucking orally fixated Sirius is and always has been is not going to help James pull away enough to get his wretched bastard robes off. He's going to have to kiss him, if he starts thinking things like that. He's going to have to shove his tongue into that insatiable mouth, and – fuck it – just one kiss. Sirius makes this startled, pleased little sound in the back of his throat, and kisses back like he wants to give him everything. All soft and open and offering _,_ and fuck, all James can think or want or do is _take_.

 _“_ Suck me – oh fuck, Sirius, do it, suck my cock – ”

His voice has come back wrong, all desperate and teenage, and he really doesn't care. He _is_ desperate, and who fucking wouldn't be? God knows Sirius is desperate, too – fuck, the way he's looking at him, anyone would think he hadn't just come. So intense, so fucking _hungry._ Fuck yes, Sirius is starving for it, _gagging_ for it, and James is going to give it to him, he's going to –

Fuck, he's on his back again. He's on his back, and Sirius is pushing his legs apart, and shredding his clothes with a quick muttered spell, and just like that, he's naked _._ No more clinging, maddening cloth; no more fucking confinement. He's free, and he can feel the breeze from the open window tingling all over his body. It feels good, and the ticklish dance of Sirius' hair across his bare stomach feels even better. Sirius' rough-tipped fingers stroke reverently over his hipbones, and that feels fucking _lovely._ And then Sirius bows his head and breathes _oh,_ and James feels it sigh over his tight, strained, _sensitive_ skin, and every other feeling disappears into total irrelevance.

Sirius' breath is touching his _cock._ Sirius' mouth is so close to his cock that he can feel the humid tropical heat of it. So close he can feel his fucking _breath_.

 _“_ Fuck, James... ”

So close he can feel every hushed syllable. Sirius' breath, Sirius' _voice –_ caressing his cock with the sound of his name.

_James, James._

It's not a word, it's a fucking incantation. It's a spell to make him throb and ache and twitch.

 _“_ James, you're so _hard.”_

Sirius' eyes looking up at him, enthralled and enthralling. Sirius' voice so impossibly, intimately _close_ he can feel it whispering under his skin. Saying that – so hot, and so damn _stupid._ Stating the blatantly, painfully obvious like it's some kind of fucking revelation.

_So hard, so hard, so hard._

_“_ Fuck yes,” he says, hand fisted around the base of his cock before he knows he means to do it. “I fucking _know._ I told you to suck it, not fucking describe it. _”_

So hard, so fucking hard _._ Jesus, fuck, he's _dripping._

He grabs a handful of thick black hair, fingers clenching tight tight _tight._ Yes, this is better, this is what he needs. One hand on his cock, one hand holding Sirius. Guiding, leashing, _controlling_ Sirius. No more patience, no more waiting for Sirius to pull himself together. He's been so, so patient – he's been so fucking noble and gracious and _nice._

 _“Now,_ Sirius _,”_ he hisses. “Suck it right now, or I'll shove it down your fucking throat.”

Sirius makes this ragged, needy little noise, and he's trembling all over as his eyes flutter closed, and his lips part and spread obscenely –

“Fuck shit fuck yes, _yes_ – ”

Oh fuck, James can feel the cut – the split in Sirius' lush lower lip. He can feel it touching his cock _._ He can feel it, because Sirius' mouth is – fuck. Fuck. Sirius' always-bleeding, always-open, always- _teasing_ mouth is wrapped around his fucking _cock_.

 _“_ Oh, _fuck yes,_ ” he groans. “You feel so fucking _good_ , Sirius, so – god, even better than I thought – ”

So much better. Better, hotter, wetter. As wet as being inside a girl, as hot as being inside a planet. Fuck – inside – he's inside Sirius mouth. He's inside _Sirius_ , and it feels fucking _unbelievable._ It's all he can do not to come at the first curl of tongue over the head of his cock, the way Sirius licks like all he's ever wanted in his whole fucking life is to taste him. The half-controlled thrust of his hips forces his cock deeper into Sirius' mouth, and Sirius takes him easily, cheeks hollowed as he begins to fucking _suck_.

“Oh, oh fucking _hell_ yeah _–_ yeah, yeah, just like _that.”_

He wants to watch. He's wanted it for so long – to look down and see his cock sliding in and out of that fucking mouth. To see those lips stretched around him, that face all flushed and focused and nakedly eager to please. Sirius looks so much more vivid and messy and just plain fucking gorgeous than anything James' mind could ever conjure, and fuck, he _can't_ watch. His eyes keep squeezing shut, tight as the rest of his body, and every time he opens them the sight of Sirius sucking on his cock makes him bite into his tongue so hard he'd swear it's fucking bleeding. It's just one overloaded sense too many. He can't keep his eyes open, or he'll come too fucking soon, and he can't keep his eyes open because he definitely _is_ going to come very, very soon indeed, and he needs to let go, needs to stop looking and just let himself _feel_ it. Sirius' mouth kissing, licking, sucking, sliding up and down his cock. The wet heat, the silky glide of tongue, the flutter of Sirius' throat. In, out, in even deeper. The tight pulling pressure building and building, the pure fucking _pleasure_ of it.

 _“_ So good, Sirius, fuck, you're so good at that, so fucking good for me, so fucking _perfect –_ ”

Sirius' throat clenches and hums around the head of his cock, taking him so fucking _deep._ Wanting more of him. Wanting his mouth to be fuller, wanting James' cock to fill him right up. Wanting to _choke_ on it. So hungry for him, starving for him, sucking him so hard. Like he wants to swallow all of him, like he'll never get _enough._

 _“_ Oh fuck, Pads, fuck, your fucking _mouth_ – ”

Tongue loose, fingers tight in Sirius' hair, hips thrusting, cock pushing deeper.

He's losing it, he's losing control of his speech and his hands and his whole fucking body. Pulling Sirius down, pushing up to meet him. Fucking his mouth, fuck, he's fucking his mouth and Sirius is _letting_ him. Choking on it, just like he wanted. Just like they wanted. Choking, and still letting him, opening his throat for him, still wanting _more._

 _“_ Sirius, fuck, you take it so well, you love it so much – you – _oh –_ always wanted this, haven't you? Always wanted me, yeah, always wanted to be mine like this. Always, _fuck_ , Sirius – Sirius – mine, always, _mine–”_

And Sirius moans – Sirius _moans_ around his cock, and it aches through his body, and fuck, it's too much, it's too much. Tension and tightness and heat and so much fucking pleasure that it's going to demolish him. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it. He can't last, he's going to come. He's going to come. He's going to come in Sirius' mouth. He's going to come in Sirius' fucking _mouth._ And his hips jerk and his cock pulses and all the wound-up tight-packed need unravels and spills and he's _doing_ it. He's coming in Sirius' mouth and he feels Sirius swallowing and it makes him come even harder, so hard it's like he's never going to _stop._

 

 

* * *

 

 _“_ James... ”

 _“_ Mm?”

He wraps an arm around Sirius and presses him closer, too sex-slow and boneless to want anything in the world except to lie like this for as long as he can get away with it. Sirius is lovely and warm, and just the right weight, and James can feel his restless heartbeat and half-hard cock, and smell how long it's been since he washed his hair. Really, the only way this could be better would be if Sirius were properly naked.

 _“_ Thanks.”

The word is smudged up against his neck, so soft and so very unexpected that he's not sure he's heard right.

“Did you say _thank you_?”

“...yeah.”

“For... wait, did you just thank me for – ”

 _“_ Not for _that_ , you fucking – ” Sirius bites his neck, sharp and painful, more like an irritable dog than a lover.

 _“_ Fucking _ow –_ would you give it a rest with the fucking _teeth_?”

Sirius licks the sore patch of skin. “Pansy.”

James grins, and gives his hair a fond, vindictive tug.

 _“_ Psycho.”

 _“_ Bloody – _ah –_ bloody fucking _popinjay_.”

James laughs, and rolls them over so they're side by side, face to face so he can see him properly.

 _“_ Is that even a real word?”

 _“_ Of course it is,” says Sirius, all rumpled and smirking and superior. “Popinjay, noun; 'a vain or conceited wanker'. Look it up – there's a picture of your face and everything.”

He's smiling too much for the kiss he pushes on Sirius to be anything other than clumsy, but it still makes that damn smirk unravel into a moan. He tightens his grip on Sirius' hair, just enough to make the self-satisfied bastard whimper, licking into his stupid, clever mouth and moaning himself when he tastes his own come. By the time he pulls away, Sirius is breathless and shivering again, and that bulge in his boxers is quite a bit bigger. Quite distractingly so, in fact.

 _“_ I mean it, you know,” Sirius says, forehead bumping gently into his.

 _“_ Yeah, I'm sure, you bloody – ”

 _“_ No, I mean seriously... Thanks. For before, you know. For showing me, letting me... for all of it, really. For not – well, just thanks, alright? I owe you.”

Sirius looks as human and as otherworldly as James has ever seen him, those uncanny eyes blazing with intensity and then lowering in a way that's almost _shy._

_'I owe you.'_

A strange, charged promise buried in a common turn of phrase.

James could say ' _no, you don't',_ of course _._ It would be true in every sense that matters. True, and totally beside the point. It would be like telling Sirius that he doesn't owe him a birthday present, or spelling out the fact that he never _really_ needs to earn his forgiveness. It would be like pointing out that a crown is just a metal circle, or that a game is only a game.

He grins, and pulls Sirius' hair just hard enough to make him meet his eyes again. “I'm going to hold you to that.”


	11. Interlude (Part 1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Shut up,” James says, tightening his grip on Sirius' waist as he works out how to balance. “Wanker. What's a road trip, anyway?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowest update ever, sorry. I'd love to say that the delay was due to the carefully crafted and elaborately plotted nature of this installment, but that would be an epic lie. This is a weird in-between chapter that's ended up so long I've had to split it into two parts, but on the plus side, the second half should (hopefully) be done within the week. 
> 
> Thanks to anyone still reading this nonsense.

_**  
**_

 

Tuesday ends rather earlier than any other day in recent memory, but it makes up for that by ending considerably better than any other day James can think of.

Having been needled, goaded, and otherwise seduced out of every attempt to grab a quick post coital nap, he really can't be blamed for the fact that it's _“not even midnight, you loser”_ when his sleep-debt catches up with him and he starts drifting off in the bath. Stupid insults aside, Sirius is quite good about it, really – he only mock-drowns him once, and he lets him doze against his shoulder for a lot longer than James would've thought he'd have the patience for. While he does wake him up with his fucking teeth (and a lot of grumbling, to boot) , he also gives him the softest, most undemanding kiss when James helps him out of the bath; murmuring _“nah, it's alright”_ when James' gaze lingers on his hard-on, almost gentle as he bats his hand away.

It's one of the strangest moods James has ever seen him in – _“come here, let's get you dried off”_ is a command and a request rolled into one, and the rough, brisk way Sirius towels at his hair is rather at odds with the look on his face when he kneels on the hard tiles of the bathroom floor to dry his feet for him. All lowered eyes and rare, hypnotic calm, like he really doesn't care about getting off at all, even though he's only got harder since getting on his knees. It's confusing, and sexy as hell, and James is too drowsy to do much except hope that it happens again when he's actually capable of keeping his eyes open.

Despite the fact that he's too bloody sleepy to take proper advantage, the whole situation is both weird and brilliant enough that he's still smiling about it when he falls into bed and wraps himself around Sirius like a cloak, chest to back with his nose buried in wet, clean-smelling hair and his knees tucked into the crooks of Sirius'. All things considered, it's a pretty magnificent end to a real mixed bag of a day, even before Sirius takes his hand and guides it to his throat and whispers _“will you?”_ in the dark. _“Just – like this, I mean. While we sleep.”_

James is, naturally, entirely happy to oblige. He falls asleep with Sirius' pulse beating steady and even against the pad of his thumb, and a head full of plans for tomorrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tomorrow, as it turns out, is a bit of a bastard, and doesn't give two hoots about James' many, varied plans for securing it a position on the Best Day Ever shortlist.

The trouble starts, as it so often does, when it stops being tomorrow and starts being Wednesday, which it does with a big old fuss and a total failure to conform to James' very reasonable expectation that it would be ushered in by a lazy morning blow job.

“Oh, fuck, it’s Wednesday,” Sirius says, serving as idiot herald to a consistently rubbish week-day when he should be sucking James' cock. “James – wake _up,_ you dozy twat. Wednesday is _today,_ isn't it?”

It's such a stupid thing to say, and said so unreasonably loudly at such an ungodly pre-dawn hour, that a violent response is not only justified but positively _called for_. Really, if Sirius thinks that romantic relationships involve bellowing about what bloody day it is while your other half is trying to get a bit of well-earned sleep, it's James' duty, as a man of the world who knows how these things actually work, to correct that misconception in the clearest possible terms.

“ _Ah –_ ow – not now, you prick,” Sirius protests, evidently confusing the concepts of hitting and hitting _on._

It’s only to be expected, James supposes, of a masochistic heathen bastard who's never even been on a date _._ Still, it's extremely annoying and leaves James with no choice but to smack him again, in a sexy way, in order to illustrate the blatantly obvious distinction. He goes for his bad shoulder, rather than his arm, and hits a bit harder, and it's a lot more satisfying than just flailing at the noisy fucker. Even James' _cock_ can tell that it's not the same at all, and it's _literally_ just a stupid cock. Sirius, who is only figuratively so, should really be able to at least _keep up,_ but he just starts up with the whole _“not now”_ thing again, like he's utterly oblivious to James' generous effort to educate him. He even gets off the bed, out of touching/hitting range, and starts putting _clothes_ on, the impossible bloody bastard _._

“Why not now?” James enquires, in what he'd describe as an exceedingly measured and reasonable sort of tone, given that it's barely even _light_ outside, and he's not the one who wanted to do _anything_ right now until Sirius made that stupid, sexy gasping sound.

“It's fucking _Wednesday,_ you moron. We've got work in less than an _hour_ , and I need to go and get my wand back from –”

“What the fuck? No, you don't, you stupid git.”

“Of course I fucking do, I can't use yours at work _,_ can I?”

“Fucking hell – listen to me, you are not _going_ to work,” James says, baffled and aggrieved by this arrant bloody nonsense. “You're sure as fuck not going back to _Hackney._ You're not going anywhere, alright? Stop being difficult, you noisy bastard - come here, now. Come back to bed.”

It's at this point, really, that it becomes clear that it's going to be one of _those_ days. The ones where they just wake up out of sync for no apparent reason; where Sirius seems to take offence at every little thing and can't see what James is getting at even when there's no possible room for misunderstanding. They don't come around all that often, not when things are right between them, and James had rather expected that actually baring his actual _soul_ to fucking bastard Sirius would put an end to the whole phenomenon for good. But no, no such luck, evidently, because in defiance of logic, reason, and basic common sense, Sirius does not draw the obvious conclusion that they _obviously_ don't have work until _next_ fucking Wednesday. No, Sirius Black, finest mind of his fucking generation, _he_ concludes that James is telling him to bunk off training because he doesn't want him to go to Hackney to get his bloody wand back, and that, furthermore, _this_ is the moment to start getting shirty about being _“ordered around”,_ of all fucking things.

It's a stupid little mix-up, a minor bit of miscommunication that shouldn't take more than five seconds to sort out. It should not be possible to have a proper row about this kind of thing, but then, it's Sirius, isn't it? Sirius, who once punched James in the face over a disagreement about sandwich fillings that somehow turned extremely personal. Sirius, who can finish his sentences, read his body-language more fluently than most people can read his bloody handwriting, who can literally read his _mind,_ for fuck's sake, and can still fail to grasp the fact that if he'd meant “tomorrow” he would not have said bloody fucking _“Wednesday”._

Sirius, who just tunes out the part where James says _“that's not what I meant”_ and chooses to focus exclusively on the irrelevant (though totally accurate) aside, _“you like it when I tell you what to do.”_

“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, isn't that _convenient.”_

It's sneering and contemptuous, that stuck-up Black-voice that he must _know_ makes James want to slap him. To make matters worse, the Prince of fucking Brats is putting his boots on while he says it, forcing James to find his glasses and abandon the idea of going back to sleep for the foreseeable bloody future.

“It's not so much convenient as just glaringly fucking obvious. I mean, I'm not saying I _mind – ”_

“Gosh, how _big_ of you. Thanks _ever_ so much.”

“Oh, come on – ”

“No, really, it must be a real chore to have to act like you fucking _own_ me. I know how you hate to – ”

“Simmer down, for fuck's sake. I'm not saying I don't _like_ it, am I? Honestly, what is your fucking _problem?_ I thought you'd– ”

“What, behave myself? Be your _good boy_ , yeah? Grovel, defer, let you run my fucking life, just because we're fucking? You think that from now on, it's going to be yes sir, no sir, tell me what to _do_ , sir? Please, sir, may I go outside?”

Halfway through, Sirius' tone slips into this breathless, cruel parody of – well, of himself when he begs, as far as James can tell. And that's what does it, really. That sarcastic mock-submission, the bowed head and bitten lip and the faux-naive little catch in that fucking voice. Like James is supposed to feel stupid or worse for finding it sexy; like Sirius' strange surrender-lust is a big old joke at his expense. Like he's some embarrassing cliché, some risible authoritarian of the sort they've always laughed at. Like he'd ever want _anyone_ to call him 'sir', for fuck's sake _._ If Sirius just asked the ridiculous question in a reasonably normal way, James would just scoff ' _don't be daft'_ and have done with it. He definitely wouldn't get hard, or hot all over, or really wound up and hyper-focused on sex in that particular way that just _never_ seems to end well.

He wouldn't find himself pointing out that technically, he hasn't actually _fucked_ Sirius yet, or that what they've been doing so far is more like violent teenage fumbling than anything a person to whom 'sexual relationship' was not an alien concept would call 'fucking' _._ Because it's beside the point, and kind of harsh, and he really doesn't mean it. And also because, even as he's saying the words, he _knows_ that Sirius is going to overreact and get all upset and affronted and _“go fuck yourself”_ about it. He knows, before he's finished doing it, that he's making a mistake, here.

He knows what's going to happen, knows exactly how this fight is going to end. And he's right, he's absolutely dead-on, but then, it's a pretty safe bet, really, isn't it? It's the least surprising result since James' last match as captain ended in record-breaking glory for Gryffindor. Sirius storms out and slams the fucking door and fucking _leaves_ again. Of course he fucking does. Of _course._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is, at least, really easy to find him this time. After all, James knows exactly where Sirius is going, and seeing as he's _not_ the idiot who left his wand in the hands of an over-excitable muggle teen, he gets there rather faster than Sirius can manage.

He gives the old red door a quick, cathartic kicking, and settles in for yet another round of the bloody waiting game. He'd rather hoped to do his waiting indoors, but Sid doesn't pick up when he tries the mirror, and he gives up after the third go. Being ignored by Sirius is one thing; being ignored by bloody _Sid_ is just absurd, and he refuses to suffer such indignity, no matter how cold or boring it is in the cold, boring alley.

For once, the universe rewards his patience in reasonably short order. It certainly feels like he's waiting for centuries, but technically, according to his watch, it's less than an hour before Sirius shows up, rounding the corner wreathed in smoke and dawn-light. Even with the length of the alley between them, James can tell that Sirius has managed, once again, to push his still-healing body too far; his back is too straight, his posture too perfect, like he can't bend for fear of breaking. He’s tense around the shoulders like he’s trying not to shiver - no wonder, really. It’s not exactly t-shirt weather, is it? Maybe James should offer him his coat. Yeah, right - that’ll go down well. Just like the last time he tried to be chivalrous where that unromantic fucker was concerned.

Tempting as it is, running right up and kissing the daft, stubborn bastard will most likely earn him a punch in the face, so James just leans back and lets Sirius come to him.

“Alright, Padfoot? Fancy meeting you here.”

“Fuck off,” says Sirius, stopping just close enough to blow smoke in his face. “Who said you could borrow my jacket?”

James reins in a prematurely relieved grin, and leans in to pluck the cigarette from Sirius' mouth. Grey eyes darken, chapped lips part at the fleeting touch of his fingers, and he finds he can't help smiling after all.

“Suits me, doesn't it?” he says, taking a drag just to watch Sirius watch him smoke, and regretting it immediately when an awkward, half-suppressed cough ruins the whole effect. “God, that's horrible –”

Sirius snorts, retrieving his fag before James can toss the disgusting thing away.

“Loser.”

“Oi --” he shoves lightly at Sirius' shoulder. “Don't call me a loser, loser.”

“I'll call you what I bloody well please,” Sirius says, shoving back a great deal harder. “You're a ridiculous loser with bad hair and weird balls and I don't know why I even tolerate your existence, never mind – ”

“Love me?” James suggests helpfully, earning himself a scowl and another face-full of bloody smoke. “I know, it's a mystery for the ages. I'm just a charming, handsome, multi-talented loser who worships the ground you walk on and happens to have a massive – ”

“Ego?”

“That, too,” he concedes with an easy half-smile and a quick ruffle of Sirius' intolerably perfect-looking hair. “What's weird about my balls, anyway?”

“Well... ” Sirius quirks his eyebrows, smirking as he casts a significant look at James' crotch. “I mean, I hate to use the word _deformity_...”

“You fucking – ” he cuffs the bastard 'round the back of the head. “I do _not_ have a fucking _deformity._ There's nothing wrong with my balls, they're perfectly fucking average, and – stop _sniggering,_ you twat.”

“I assure you, Prongs, I take your condition very s— _uh! Ow!”_

“Oh, dear, was that your bad shoulder?”

“Arsehole,” mutters Sirius, grinding out the fag he just dropped with the toe of his boot, clearly trying to act like he discarded it on purpose. “You hit like a bloody pygmy-puff, you know.”

James grins, deciding between one breath and the next that the time is ripe for addressing a couple of issues raised by their good-morning quarrel. In, of course, a suitably delicate and tactful sort of way.

“I believe you mean, 'please, sir, do it _harder'”_

Sirius colours slightly, terribly absorbed by the sight of his own feet, all of a sudden.

“Shut up.”

It's a bit sharper than James was expecting – sharp enough to give him pause for thought. He tilts Sirius' chin up, trying to look past the blushing and the flutter of inky black eyelashes to find some kind of clue as to what the actual _problem_ is.

“Sirius? You know I don't want all that, right? You don't really –”

“No, of course not,” Sirius shakes his head impatiently, seemingly annoyed that James would be stupid enough to treat his words as if they might actually _mean_ something. “That _sir_ stuff was just – I was just trying to illustrate what an absolute cunt you were being, that's all. I know you'd never want – and I know you'd never really call me, you know...”

 _Good boy,_ James' mind supplies, extremely fucking promptly.

He bites his tongue. If Sirius won't repeat the damn phrase himself, he's unlikely to take kindly to James saying it, even in a totally neutral, _just checking that this is what I mustn't ever call you_ kind of way.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Okay then. Except for the part where I wasn't actually being – ”

“Yeah, I know, I worked that out on the fucking bus, didn't I? I mean, why you didn't just _say_ that we had the week off, I really can't – ”

“I did say that! That is _exactly_ what I fucking said!”

“You really didn't, but never mind that, eh? It's done now, isn't it? It doesn't matter what you said. Now, shut your face and fuck off home, will you? I'll be back in half an hour.”

“Yeah, right,” James scoffs. “You do realize that's not what’s going to happen?”

He's expecting a bit of heated debate on the subject, but Sirius just narrows his eyes and shrugs, “fine then”, turning away and swanning off down the alley without another word.

“Hey -” James bumps their shoulders together as he catches up. “Where are you going, you idiot? The door's back there – ”

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is,” James says, rolling his eyes. “I should know, I've spent enough time banging on the bloody thing.”

“Really?” Sirius' surprised bark of laughter echoes through the alleyway, annoying James no end. “Which? The red one? It was red, wasn't it, that night you – ”

“Yes, you fuck, the fucking _red_ one. The gateway to hell, my arch-door-nemesis, the bastard wooden bane of my existence – you are _not_ going to tell me that it's a – ”

“Different door every time,” Sirius confirms, laughing his arse off, the absolute prick. “Yep, 'fraid so – well, it's always one of these, so, you know. Your, ah, _nemesis,_ has – it's been, you know – more than _once_. If that makes you feel any better.”

“Fuck you,” James says, shoving him, further aggrieved when his own traitor mouth starts trying to laugh at him. “It isn't fucking _funny.”_

“Right, no, of course not.” Sirius' obnoxious mock-solemnity lasts all of two seconds, dissolving into stupidly infectious laughter again the moment James looks at him. “How _much_ time exactly did you – ”

James smacks him in the shoulder, hard enough to force that satisfying little _uh_ sound out of him again.

“A fucking lot, you wanker, because – fool that I am – I really wanted to see you. I'm glad you're so fucking _amused_ by tha – oh, hello.”

Sirius smiles, startlingly close, hands fisting tighter in the lapels of James' borrowed jacket.

“Loser.”

Whispered soft against his mouth like that, it's hard to object to, especially when Sirius follows it up with a kiss so deep and lingering and fucking _intense_ that it leaves him breathless and a bit disoriented. His back's against the wall when Sirius pulls away, falling back a step, harsh stutters of breath misting in the winter-morning air as he shakes his head.

“Stop distracting me,” says Sirius, absurdly. “Look, do you really want to come in? It's a bit of an awkward time, you know. You'll have to hide out in Sid's room while I sort out a quick bit of business with – ”

“I knew it! I _knew_ you weren't just going to pick up your stuff and come straight home – 'half an hour', my _arse._ ”

“Oh, get fucked, I never said – and I _will_ be half an hour. More like twenty minutes, if you'd just let me get the fuck _on_ with it. You realize I'm going out of my fucking way for you, here? Now stop your nonsense and follow me, before I change my mind.”

James rolls his eyes, gives Sirius the sarky, pointed _“yes, sir”_ the bossy bloody hypocrite has coming, and does as he's told without (very much) further ado.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sid is bleary-eyed and dressed in mismatched pyjamas, and happier about being dragged out of bed at seven am than any teenage boy should ever be. Persuading him to let James through the door takes Sirius rather longer than expected; the poor lad looks so pleased and so astonished by the brief hug Sirius pulls him into when he first answers the door that James is really quite taken aback to hear him say _“no”_ like he actually means it. Still, as weirdly averse to breaking his father's rules as Sid turns out to be, his aversion to disappointing “Jamie” wins out in the end. There is, James concludes, some hope for the lad after all.

The prospect of _“keeping an eye”_ on James while Sirius attends to his mysterious _“business with your dad”_ seems to appeal to Sid more than James might've anticipated. The boy doesn't seem to find him even a tiny bit intimidating, despite that regrettable business with the strangling. When Sirius disappears through the first door in the long, grubby corridor behind the bar, Sid actually has the nerve to _tell James off_ for trying to follow him, shocking him into a brief bout of sheepish acquiescence that he's really glad Sirius isn't around to witness.

Vehement lectures about snooping around other people's houses when they're standing _right there_ notwithstanding, Sid turns out to be quite an agreeable host. His boxy, cluttered bedroom is the most normal, lived-in looking part of the sprawling underground compound that James has seen so far. It even has a carpet, which is sufficiently littered with dirty plates and dirty socks and dirty magazines to reassure James that the lad is not so unhealthily rule-abiding that he actually needs to stage an intervention. In fact, Sid seems to lead a more lawless existence within these four walls than James could've hoped to get away with when _he_ was that age – there are empty beer bottles next to the rickety bunk-bed, and the air is thick with smoke that smells far too appealing not to come from a nice, pure, no-tobacco spliff, of the sort James has not enjoyed for _entirely_ too long. Sid is hospitable enough to rectify this situation without any prompting whatsoever – he gets out his sizeable stash and starts fiddling with paper and crumbling weed between his grubby-nailed fingers just as soon as they've crammed themselves into the bottom bunk. The top one, apparently, is off-limits to everyone except some absent _“_ Gary _”,_ who is _“going to be upset enough that I said Jamie could sleep there last week”_ at whichever point in the ill-defined future he returns to claim his bed.

“He was with you, then?” James says, relieved and a tiny bit annoyed at the same time. “Getting high in a bloody bunk bed with his biggest fucking fan – no offence –while I was... well. Never mind what I was doing _._ ”

“I'm not his fan, I'm his _friend,_ he said so – well, sort of – and yes, we did hang out a bit, but only in the evenings before things got started. He never wanted to come back after – I don't know where he went to sleep, he wouldn't say. He just said he had 'extra-curricular activities' and I don't know what that means – do you?”

“It means 'I'm a smug, secretive twat who's trying to sound mysterious.'”

“You don't know, then?”

“No idea,” James concedes, head spinning as he exhales. “He's always been a cryptic bastard. He thinks it's cool, you know. He thinks he's _enigmatic.”_

“Well, I mean, he sort of _is_ , though, isn't he?”

James considers this, stoned enough that it seems, for a moment, sort of almost true. Then he cracks up, passes the joint, and sets about the vitally important business of spoiling Sirius' mystique as comprehensively as only he can.

It's actually sort of fun, as waiting-for-Sirius experiences go. The smoke seems to shrink the gap between their ages, somehow – either Sid seems older, or James has just regressed. Hard to say, when his head feels so muggy and Sid smokes like he's been doing it from birth. They crack open a couple of lukewarm beers and swap questions along with the joint, and while James contributes the vast majority of the answers, Sid does know a few things he doesn't – even one or two about _Sirius_. Like how long he's been “Jamie” for – two months, which doesn't surprise James at all until Sid adds _“properly, I mean – the first time I met him was Mayday.”_

Which he's still not sure he believes _. May,_ for fuck's sake _–_ there's no way he wouldn't have noticed. Still, Sid is very insistent and also starts trying to tell him about something called “the worker’s movement” in baffling, rambling, excruciating detail, necessitating a quick, firm change of subject.

“It's always been like that,” Sid says, when he asks about the weird building and its sneaky moving doors. “It does what my dad wants, and me too, sometimes – I'm not supposed to change it but sometimes I just can't be arsed to go all the way down the hall just to get the stupid _door,_ and I can't help it if the house wants to help me, can I?”

“How does that work, then?”

“No idea – Jamie says there's a room at that school that works the same, but even _he_ doesn't know how it actually _does_ it, so I don't suppose you do, either. Jamie says it's magic, but my dad says it's not, and he got really upset when I asked, and I don't know. Magic doesn't work here so I don't see how it can be magic, but – ”

“Oh, it's magic alright,” James says, sputtering a bit as he tries to speak and inhale at the same time. “That whole moving doors thing – definite symptom of magic, that is. Trust me, I'm a wizard. I know about these things.”

“You think so? I mean, it does seem kind of magic-y, doesn't it? My dad says it understands the Cause, though, and if it was magic that would mean – well, no, I shouldn't talk about that.”

“That's fine, mate, no worries. I don't really care, to be honest with you. Say, I was wondering, are you a muggle or a squib or what? I mean, you live in a fucking magic house, right, but you're totally -”

“My dad doesn't like those words,” Sid cuts in, sounding as close to frosty as he can probably manage, and looking at James like he's _disappointed_ in him. “We don't talk like that in this house.”

Despite James' repeated assurances that he's got nothing whatsoever against muggles or squibs, and that those are neutral terms that literally everyone uses, Sid stays in a huff until Sirius gets back. At which point, the treacherous bugger gets James into all sorts of trouble by bounding right up and launching into a litany of questions which concludes with _“hey, Jamie, is your name really Sirius?”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius is so unreasonably pissed off about his stupid secret identity that it takes him ten whole minutes to even mention the fact that he's bought a fucking _motorbike._

A really _dirty_ motorbike, as it turns out – James has never seen one up close before, but he's pretty confident that they don't usually come with cobwebs. Sirius' new pride and joy is a dusty, hulking relic left to rust in a manky, metal-doored room called 'the garage'. Bigger than the bikes James has seen speeding down the streets of muggle London, and cruder looking, somehow – more unwieldy. Really, it's not that impressive at all, and James doesn't care the least bit that Sirius offers _Sid_ a ride while pointedly ignoring _him._ He doesn't want to ride the stupid motorbike anyway, and Sirius doesn't look anything like as cool as he thinks he does, straddling the damn thing in his damn muggle clothes with his damn hair falling into his eyes like that.

“You don't look cool, you know,” James says, when Sirius _finally_ stops messing around with Sid and beckons him over. “You've got a spider in your hair, and I bet your stupid motorbike gives you some kind of horrible bum-disease.”

Sirius laughs, bright eyed and windswept, bad mood apparently forgotten in the time it took him to drive round the block.

“You won't want to come for a spin, then?” Sirius moves, like he's about to drive away, making the bike growl and rumble in a bloody obvious bluff which James is in no way taken in by. “Oh well, I'm sure I'll find someone who's up for a bit of a road trip. Someone a bit less _squeamish,_ you know – someone a bit more adventuro- _ow,_ oh, changed your mind, then, have you?”

“Shut up,” James says, tightening his grip on Sirius' waist as he works out how to balance. “Wanker. What's a road trip, anyway?”

“What does it sound like, genius? It's a kind of trip. A trip that you take not by sea, or sky, or rail, or floo, but instead by – come on, I'll give you three guesses – ”

“I'll push you off your fucking bike,” James says, raising his voice as the bike in question sputters and roars suddenly into action, speeding down the street fast enough to make his blood rush.

“Blimey, this is alright, isn't it? Didn't know they could go so – fuck! Stop laughing, you mad – _Sirius!_   Watch the fucking _road!”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I still don't get it,” James says, as they grind to a halt for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Seriously, what's so special about being on the road?”

Sirius huffs irritably, tossing his head like a restless horse.

“I told you, if you'd pick up a book now and then, you'd – ”

“No, I wouldn't – that Karowack bloke didn't know what he was on about. The road is shit. It's slow as anything and there's all these cars in the way, and we have to stop every time there's a fucking red light. If we had our brooms, we'd be – ”

“Enough about your precious fucking _broom_ , already. It'll be fine once we get out of London.”

The light changes, at last, and the bike coughs and grumbles like an old man woken from a nap as it comes alive beneath them.

“This is going to be fun, alright?” shouts Sirius, making it sound like a terrible threat. “Oh, and by the way, it's bloody _Kerouac,_ you peasant. Learn to fucking read.”

“That's what I said,” James says, further irritated when the noise of the bike drowns out his objection, leaving Sirius to think he got the last word.

Getting out of London is easier said than done, all stop-start frustration, ill-conceived 'shortcuts', and so many red lights that James gives up his running tally before they've even escaped the evil clutches of Hackney. When they finally manage it, and find their way onto the longer, wider, _faster_ road which Sirius patronizingly informs him is called a 'motorway' (which he already knew, thanks very much), things do get a lot better, at least for a while.

Being on the bike is brilliant, once it gets going – the speed and the sting of the wind and the way his heart jumps every time they swerve too close to a car or one of those rattling behemoths he _already knew_ were called lorries. These muggle machines seem heavy and solid and _powerful,_ now he's down here among them, dangerous in a way they never were from a distance. They hurtle past at nerve-rattling velocity, these noisy, armoured things that could crush and smash and maybe even _kill_ him. It's like dodging bludgers, if bludgers were huge and made of metal, and there were hundreds of them, and he wasn't allowed to steer. The bike darts between them, quick as an eel, zig-zagging wildly all over the road as Sirius turns sharply to evade or overtake some furious, horn-beeping muggle driver. James' life is in the hands of a total maniac who barely even knows how to drive – it's really quite _exciting_. He presses close to Sirius, holding tight and laughing into his hair when he does something especially stupid, brilliant, or audacious. It feels pretty fucking glorious, and he finds himself rather getting off on the whole thing – the rumbling of the bike, the surge of adrenaline, the way Sirius' body tenses and shifts against him. When Sirius starts shivering, James' cock responds rather faster than his brain does – it takes a fair while and a near-death experience or two before he realizes there's actually something _wrong_.

“Pull over,” he says, then. “There, up ahead, it says Services. Go left here – _left,_ you idiot – ”

Sirius veers further to the right, and James can't actually tell if he's being contrary or just cocking things up because he's on the verge of passing out. It's the kind of thing it helps to be sure of, that is, and the uncertainty makes the time it takes to find a place to stop the fucking bike stretch on and on for what feels like forever. The road seems endless, and it all starts to look the same – the signs that tell him nothing, the unrelenting stream of traffic, the bleak, featureless fields blurring past outside the margins of the motorway. It's numbing, the repetition and the worrying, the waiting and waiting and wondering if Sirius is going to stop, or collapse, or just keep driving until the road runs out.

“Sirius,” he tries, for the fourth or fifth time, leaning in to shout into his ear. “I need a piss, you twat – pull over.”

Sirius ignores him. Cars pass. Fields pass. He wonders if Sirius is alright. Fields pass. Cars pass. The road branches off – Services again. He says “ _Sirius, come on_ ”, and Sirius ignores him. No fields now, just sloping muddy sides – they're in a trench, a literal rut. Cars, lorries, Sirius' shoulders shaking. Worry, greyness. A narrow escape. Annoyance, hunger, an itch in his balls.

“Sirius.”

No response. Cars, etcetera. Again, what feels like hours later;

“Sirius, come on. You can't control the fucking bike.”

“What? Fuck off, of course I can.”

“Oh, so you can hear me, then?”

“Hard not to when you're bawling in my bloody ear.”

“Then fucking _listen_ to me _,_ will you? I'm hungry and bored and you won't stop fucking trembling, so stop being a prick and pull the fuck over. Right now – there, here, turn left here. _Now_ , Sirius.”

Sirius does as he's told, at long last. Growling at him, barely audible over the whip-crack wind and the noise of the traffic; “I'm not _trembling,_ you freak.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure you're feeling better? You still look a bit...”

He looks at Sirius across the tacky plastic table, and tries to come up with a word that isn't _delicate._ Nothing really springs to mind. Surrounded by the beigeness and over-bright light of the service station cafe, Sirius looks damn near fucking _ethereal._ Pale skin – pale _lips_ , for fuck's sake, like a vampire's had his way with him. Pale, wraithlike eyes glaring through a drift of smoke as he stabs out the end of his last cigarette.

“I'm fine. Stop fussing, will you? I don't see why you're making such a – ”

“You fucking _fainted,_ Sirius – ”

“I did _not_ fucking – I just got a bit – ”

“Faint?”

“Fuck you,” Sirius snaps, giving his shin a petty, savage kick under the table. “I blacked out for about _five seconds_ and you would've done the same if your fucking insides started bleeding because _some incompetent bastard_ messed up the – ”

“I didn't _mess it up!”_ James kicks the fucking ingrate right back. “You're the one who messed up my hard work by fucking around when you're supposed to be _resting._ If you're so dissatisfied with my fucking healing services, maybe we should just go to – ”

“Shut up, you know I don't mean – look, you did a good job, alright? You fixed the problem, and I feel much better, and there's no need to keep going on about it.”

Mollified, if not entirely reassured, James nudges a foot between Sirius' and slides his plate across the table.

“Alright then, if you're sure. D'you really want to drive all the way, though?”

Sirius rolls his eyes, too busy polishing off James' breakfast to bother with a proper answer. He looks a lot less fey with his mouth full of sausage, and James grins at him, feeling the memory of roadside panic and awful blank eyes beginning to fade. It's not a crisis any more, it's just a scrape they got into and out of, like always. A close call, a tale of adventure. He's the hero of the hour, not a frightened boy fumbling around on his knees saying _“Sirius, Sirius, what do I do?”_ and dropping his wand in the fucking mud.

“James?” Sirius' foot hooks around his ankle. “Listen, if you don't want to do this...”

This is his chance, then. He knew he'd get one, sooner or later. All he has to do is say the word, and Sirius will give up on his ridiculous “road trip” and they can be home in less than five minutes. No more perilous encounters, no more buzzing traffic, no impromptu jaunt to bloody Yorkshire. No risk of getting lost, or crashing, or driving on and on forever and forgetting everything except forward momentum and the closeness of Sirius' under-dressed body. No risk at all, really. A safe bet with a side order of sex that definitely _won't_ take place by the side of the road or on a fucking motorbike.

“Don't be daft,” he says, pushing his chair back. “Come on, then, what are you waiting for? Let's get back on the bloody road before that charm wears off the money.”

Sirius hand brushes against his as they fall into step, and for a heartbeat or two, their fingers intertwine, tangling together and then pulling carelessly apart when Sirius quickens his pace.

“Shall we get some provisions?” James suggests, running a nonchalant hand through his hair. “I thought next time we might stop somewhere a bit more, you know, _private..._ ”

 


	12. Interlude (Part 2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We should elope,” James says. “Fuck off training and London and all of that, and live in the woods, like you said.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so much for deadlines. Sorry about that, and the delay in replying to comments. 
> 
> CW for some homophobia, and the usual un-SSC approach to rough sex.

 

 

“Is this what you had in mind?”

Sirius' voice is low and mocking as he closes in. Flicking his fag away, smoke mingling with the mist of his breath in the frigid country air.

“A quick fumble in the hedgerows down some back road to nowhere?”

“Er,” says James, trying to clear his throat. “Well. Yeah. Not exactly.”

He'd pictured something a bit warmer, a bit less bleak and inhospitable than this moody, storm-lit bit of countryside they've stopped in. He'd pictured long grass, lying down, laughing as he rolled Sirius underneath him. He hadn't pictured this strange, tense atmosphere, or this unreadable, weirdly _imposing_ version of Sirius that the road has conjured into being. He definitely hadn't pictured himself getting rattled, thrown off, or in any way _flustered_ by the way Sirius moves, or speaks, or fucking _looks_ at him.

“No?”

Sirius' cold, callused fingertips touch his jaw, ghost over the scar behind his left ear and run down the back of his neck, sending this tingling frostburn shiver dancing down his spine. Maybe Sirius feels it – maybe that's why he smiles in that arrogant, predatory way that makes the word _danger_ ring through James' body like a summoning bell.

“Were you hoping for something a bit more... sophisticated?”

Sirius crowds him back against the creaking gate, smirking as he gropes him roughly through his borrowed jeans.

“I... er, what?”

His voice sounds stupid. He feels stupid – clumsy, slowed down, stiff all over. His blood is rushing south, and his head's gone sort of empty, hollow feeling, almost _numb._

Sirius' mouth is close enough to steal his breath. James can taste his smoke, feel the chill radiating from his skin through his t-shirt. He even _smells_ cold, somehow. The inside of his mouth is as hot as ever, though, and he kisses like a fucking fever. Sweat drips down the back of James' neck, core-temperature rising too rapidly as Sirius palms and rubs his stiffening cock until he's hard enough that the foreign pressure of that damn zip makes him squirm.

“Someone's eager _.”_

He feels as much as hears it – a tingling hum in his lips as Sirius' breath teases over them, an itch in his veins at the sound of that voice. So close, so superior – taunting him – he should – why isn't he _doing_ anything?

“You'll be coming in your jeans if you're not careful,” Sirius whispers. “Blowing your load before we've even begun. You don't want that, now do you?”

James wants to laugh, to burst this mad little bubble. He wants to call bullshit, to say something scathing that will snap them both out of this... whatever this is. He wants to grab Sirius and show him who's in charge here, but his arms won't work, and his bones are too heavy, and he can't feel his fingers well enough to make a fist. It's the damn cold, the numbness from being on the bike for so long, the lingering trance-state inflicted by the road. It's messed him up. It's messed them both up. This is weird, this is wrong, this is _backwards._

“Um,” he says. “Er, no, I... ”

The gate rattles and sways as he leans back against it, destabilizing him further when he tries to find his footing. Sirius' hand presses harder, squeezing mercilessly, making all these pointless seams pull and rub and fuck, these jeans are so _tight._ This feels so different, dressed like this. Sirius' teeth tug at his earlobe, and he finds himself making this awful, embarrassing little noise in the back of his throat, and Sirius laughs at him in a way he doesn't like at all; this low, scornful lash of breath against his skin that makes him feel _pathetic._

“No, you want something _more_ , don't you?” says Sirius, so close to his ear he can't help but twitch. “You want a – what was it, again? Oh yes, I remember. You want a _proper fuck_.”

Oh. Yes. _That._

He makes that noise again. It really is the worst. He tries to clear it out of his throat, but all that happens is this awkward little cough, which doesn't help at all.

 _Snap out of it,_ he tells himself. _Come on, get a fucking grip. You're going to –_

“Turn around.”

It sounds like a fucking _command._

“What?”

“You heard me.” Sirius steps back, takes his hands and mouth away. “Hands on the gate, go on.”

“What?” says James, again. “Why?”

He's staring like an idiot. Like the stupid fucking useless _loser_ he feels like when Sirius meets his gaze. It's not – there's no affection there. No spark of amusement, love, exasperation. Sirius looks _bored._

“Because I'm going to fuck you.”

His body tightens up around him. His hands clench and his toes curl and his tongue feels as thick as his cock does.

“What?” he says, to his dismay. “Me?”

“Yes. You. I'm going to bend you over and fuck you senseless, right here by the side of the road where anyone could see. Unless, of course, you've got some kind of _problem_ with that?”

“I – but – ”

He stops, bites his tongue. He can't stand the sound of his voice, the flash of contempt on Sirius' face. He doesn't even know what he was trying to say.

_But what? But I thought – but I assumed? But I wanted – but I don't want?_

_Do I?_

He doesn't _know._ His palms are sweating like he's fifteen and nervous-excited. He's still hard, it's not like – he doesn't _hate_ the idea. He can't think. His head feels wrong. Sirius looks so different, strange and unknown in this uncanny light, with that expression on his face that James has never seen before. Brittle and sharp as volcanic glass, all piercing eyes and cutting edges. It's like trying to out-stare a fucking seraph or something – James can't help but blink, crack, look away.

“I, uh...”

This won't do. This isn't him. He needs to get his chin up, needs to stop behaving like an actual fucking _coward._ This is a challenge, simple as that. It should go without saying, without even _thinking,_ that he's going to rise to it.

“No,” he says, meeting Sirius' gaze head-on, forcing himself not to fucking blink. “I haven't got a problem with letting you fuck me. If that's what you want, then yeah, of course I'm up for it.”

Something shifts – the light dims and the clouds open, and Sirius changes along with the weather; faltering, diminishing, lowering his eyes as the first fat raindrop lands on James' nose. Shrinking back to his usual size, contained inside his skin again, no longer looking like he might grow fangs or talons or fucking _wings_ at any moment. Mortal, wet, uncertain, and shivering like he's only just remembered that he's not immune to cold.

“You're not angry.”

It's sort of questioning without being a question, like Sirius is testing the idea, double-checking his conclusion. James rolls his eyes, and moves away from the gate, feeling taller, more alert, and mildly irritated as he closes the distance between them.

“No need to say it like that, is there?” he says, taking Sirius' rain-streaked face in his hands and kissing his stupid startled mouth. “It's not like I'm the moody git who goes 'round getting angry over nothing.”

Sirius opens his eyes. Their expression is so familiar-fond-aggrieved, and they're so ridiculously fucking _pretty_ this close up, especially with his lashes all wet and spiky like that, that James actually finds the words _“bloody hell you've got nice eyes”_ actually coming out of his actual mouth.

At least Sirius' little double-take is sort of funny. He's got a nice laugh, as well, even if it is annoying and loud and at James' expense. He looks surprised and happy and surprised by his own happiness, and it's actually kind of charming, in an insufferable sort of way.

“I've got _nice eyes?_ Seriously, Jamie, fucking – _nice eyes?_ What, did you only just notice? _”_

 _Hey,_ thinks James. And then, almost immediately thereafter he thinks:

_Ha, I fucking win!_

“Did you just call me _Jamie?”_

“What? No, of course not.”

It's his turn to laugh now; Sirius' turn to be bloody embarrassed.

“Yes, you did,” he grins, giving Sirius' shoulder a little shove, catching his wrist and tugging him closer when he tries to retaliate. “Or are you going to tell me you were talking to _yourself_?”

“Fuck you.” Sirius scowls, trying to pull away. “Mister _Nice Eyes.”_

James laughs, and kisses him, tightening his grip on Sirius' wrist and pulling his hair for good measure.

“If you like,” he smiles against Sirius' mouth. “As long as you don't call me Ja-”

Sirius' teeth interrupt him, nipping sharply at his bottom lip, and then it's all biting and tongues and heat spreading through his body when he feels Sirius shiver, pressed up close against him. Rain pouring down on them, drenching everything except his jacket. Sirius' hair and skin and clothes all wet and cold under his roaming hands; water running down his face, his neck, getting in his mouth when he snatches a breath.

“Fuck,” he says, tipping his head back to let Sirius bite and suck at that especially sensitive bit of throat he's so – _oh –_ attached to.

His fingers clench in Sirius' hair, nails digging into the small of his back.

“Fuck, Sirius, d'you want to?”

Sirius shudders, gasping against James' pulse point.

“You'd really let me?”

“If you – _ah_ – ask me nicely. Not against that gate, though. If you want my fucking _oh_ – fucking spectacular arse around your cock, the least you can do is build me a shelter. If you really impress me, I'll tie you up and ride you 'til you're fucking _sobbing_ with my hands wrapped around your throat - ”

He's really warming up to this idea. It helps that Sirius is rubbing up against him, all needy and hard and failing to smother a whimper at the prospect of being tied up. Fuck yeah – he's going to teach the fucker not to _underestimate_ him. Make him squirm and beg and chafe his wrists raw struggling against tightly knotted rope. Really make him _work_ for it.

When Sirius pulls back a step, he's all prepared for some creative bit of magic that will allow him to fulfil this intriguing new fantasy in the very near future. He's a bit surprised, then, when Sirius drops to his knees in the middle of the fucking road and says, _“I've changed my mind.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

James basks in something like afterglow for a good long while after the usual wave of post-orgasmic bliss wears off. It's a bit unusual, the mood he finds himself in – the heady, happy buzz, and the uncomplicated tenderness where Sirius is concerned. It's not surprising, really; having Sirius on his knees for him in those fucking clothes is obviously a literal dream come true, even before the impossible, miraculous freak comes in his jeans while James is fucking his throat. It would be weird not to feel extremely well-disposed towards him, in the circumstances. It's just the gentleness that's a little bit odd. He feels uncommonly protective, though he's not entirely sure what it is he thinks Sirius needs to be protected _from._ Sirius seems fine, albeit embarrassed and a bit subdued, and unwilling to discuss the subject of 'proper fucking' until _“later – when we stop, alright?”_

It is alright, as well. It's even alright that 'stop' turns out to mean not ' _stop',_ per se, but rather _'arrive at where we’re going'._ James is in no kind of mood to argue semantics, and besides, he wants to encourage Sirius' new-found willingness to pull over for a stretch or a piss or a quick look around some derelict barn or curious little village. It's nothing like before – the motorway is a distant memory, left behind like a semi-lucid dream they shared and then shook off. The warming charms he put on their clothes certainly make things more comfortable, but that's really the least of it; the chill has gone out of everything, not just James' long-suffering extremities. It's remarkably companionable – intimate, really – being on the bike together, winding down these deserted back roads with the scenery turning wilder as they head further north. The rugged, untamed countryside seems to spring up into existence around them, made for their eyes only. Yorkshire is not the wretched place he'd imagined at all; it's an alien world whose harshness and hostile weather make it all the more appealing as a place to plant their flag. He can see why Sirius wanted to do this, and he's positive now that it really _isn't_ even partially because Sirius woke up with an inexplicably urgent need to see Remus.

Which is not any kind of revelation _,_ obviously, but nice to be sure of, nonetheless.

It's not like he was, is, or ever could be _jealous_ of Moony, of course. And of course he wants to see him; he doesn't like this mysterious loss of contact any more than Sirius does. He’s getting rather worried about it, in a proportionate, low-key way that takes into account the fact that Remus is a reclusive lone-wolf oddball by nature, and would absolutely go on holiday by himself and not even tell them about it in case they chose to tag along and force a bit of fun on him. James is certainly _concerned,_ he’s just not quite so _obsessive_ about the whole thing as certain people who have certain weird issues when it comes to poor old Remus, who has never done anything to invite such insistently focused attention. He just couldn't really get his head around the idea that Sirius would want to chase after Remus _today,_ of all days.

It's good to know that the sole purpose of this expedition is to spend time with _him,_ that's all. As that certainty sets in, he finds himself wondering just how long Sirius has harbored the desire to run away together. It might not be entirely co-incidental that he's smoking a spliff at the point this thought occurs – that stuff Sid sold them is certainly potent enough to plant all sorts of funny ideas in his head. It seems to bring out this overwhelming need to touch Sirius' hair and mouth, and (allegedly) call him _Padfoot_ every other sentence, and get really quite nostalgic about the good old days at school.

“Why is it called a Lion, though?” is what Sirius happens to be saying at the exact moment James has his non-revelation. “I mean, I know they can't make it -” he mimes a roar - “but come on, you know? Put a bit of effort in. This is just chocolate with lumps in it, there's nothing remotely leonine – ”

“We should elope,” James says. “Fuck off training and London and all of that, and live in the woods, like you said.”

“I never said -”

“You did, in third, remember? End of term, you said you were going to move into the den and learn to skin rabbits with your bare hands.”

“I don't recall inviting you to join me.”

Sirius is trying to look haughty but he's got chocolate in his mouth and his fly is undone and it's just not really happening for him. Rumpled, semi-stoned, and splashing James with ice-cold water from the river they're soaking their feet in, Sirius is altogether too relaxed to look anything other than extremely fucking _approachable._

“You wanted me to ask,” says James, removing a dead leaf from Sirius' hair. “You wanted me to say that I didn't want to go home, either.”

Sirius glances at him, sidelong, aiming for surreptitious and missing by a mile. Then he shrugs, _“nah, never,”_ plucks the spliff from between James' fingers, and flicks a bit more water at him.

“What would I want that for, eh? You'd be no use whatsoever in the woods. You'd never have the heart to skin a rabbit.”

“I could if I _had_ to,” James objects, splashing him back. “You do realize I'm trying to have a moment here?”

Sirius leans in close, blowing smoke in his face again.

“Are you going to tell me I've got nice -”

“You haven't got nice anything. Nothing about you is in any way nice. You're a bastard of the highest order, and I'm positively _glad_ I never said I'd stay in the forest with you for as long as you fucking wanted. There, is that better?”

“Good,” says Sirius, kissing him on the corner of the mouth, smoky-dry and slightly awkward. “I hate you, too, you sentimental prick.”

James is suitably touched, and touches Sirius accordingly, pulling roughly on his hair as he shoves his tongue in his mouth. He's also somewhat hopeful, as he pins Sirius' wrists to the damp, muddy ground of the river-bank, that this might be The Moment; that groping and biting and grinding up against each other might lead to something more. It feels right – it really feels like the ideal time to fuck. It feels like fucking Sirius right at this exact moment is, to all intents and purposes, his _destiny._ Or being fucked, he supposes, he doesn't mind, he'd be happy enough either way. What he's not happy about, not in the fucking _slightest,_ is having his fated moment completely fucking ruined by the sudden, rude intrusion of an angry fucking _farmer._

James knows he's a farmer, because the stout, sputtering, red-faced bigot won't stop banging on about the fact that this is _“my farm”_ and _“my land”_ and all that crap, even though this so-called farm is nowhere to be fucking seen. Honestly, like it's _his_ river – like anyone with jowls like that is in any position to call anyone else _revolting._ The foul old swine is _posh,_ too, which James regards as insult to injury – who knew posh people could even _be_ farmers, or live in Yorkshire at all for that matter? The man has no business even existing, and quite clearly just appeared out of thin air in order to fuck everything up with his puffed-up, small-minded raving about shame and decency and befouling his bloody land.

Initially, beyond the natural FUCK OFF response to being interrupted, James doesn't think it's going to be much of a problem. While the bloke is just frothing about deviants and trespassing and reporting them to The Authorities, it's actually kind of funny. _Deviants,_ honestly – how is that supposed to be an insult? It's like being called a rogue or a vagabond or something. It doesn't bother Sirius, either. They make their Deviant Face at one another, and it's fine, it's like every other time they've been on the receiving end of an incomprehensible bollocking from some random muggle or rambling weirdo down the pub. There's all this stuff about fairies, which are presumably hiding on this imaginary farm, and something really _weird_ about children. It’s nonsense - too meaningless to do more than dumbfound him for a moment or two while he tries to make some kind of sense of it all. The man seems like nothing more than a moderately diverting lunatic. Another in-joke in the making; a funny voice to add to their repertoire.

And then it's that _“queers”_ shit, and fucking _spitting_ on them, and the realization that this is nothing like those other times at all. This man properly despises them in that demented, irrational, weirdly _impersonal_ way that James will never get his head around, whether it’s love or blood or whatever else that’s supposed to be so terribly _impure._ What the fuck does that even mean? Bad, rotten, evil - the opposite of everything they actually _are,_ if this cunt had bothered to get to know them before he started foaming at the mouth. They’re literally dedicating their lives to fighting the forces of darkness, for fuck’s sake. Protecting the innocent, the vulnerable, the _weak_ \- they’d even protect this fucking farmer, if the death munchers came for his fucking invisible farm. Then he’d be sorry, wouldn’t he? James half expects the universe to supply a couple of villains for him to step in and save the blithering, irony-blind idiot from, just to illustrate the point.

He tunes the noise out for a good moment or two, imagining how proud his dad will be when he tells him how he saved this muggle’s life despite his hatefulness and bigotry and fundamental lack of worth. It doesn’t happen, though; the man just goes on and on in uninterrupted ignorance, and James becomes increasingly aware of the fact that Sirius is deathly pale and still and staring not at the farmer but at him; that Sirius is waiting for him to _do_ something.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As they make their way back to the road, James rather regrets not letting Sirius have a go at the fucker before he stunned him. It's not all _that_ likely that Sirius would've actually killed the man, and he might be a bit less angry with life, the universe, and especially with _James_ , had he been allowed to vent his spleen on a more deserving target. It might've brought them closer, teaching that ignorant pig a lesson. Taking turns like they used to with the especially _nasty_ Slytherins – the ones who really had it coming. That man had it coming, he really fucking _did,_ and they could've wiped his memory. No harm, no foul, and all of that. Who cares if he was just a harmless old muggle, really? He wasn't so fucking harmless when he was upsetting the fuck out of Sirius with his stupid fucking slurs, now was he?

Sirius definitely _wouldn't_ have killed him. Not _killed-_ killed. Sirius says he's going to kill people all the time and he's never actually done it. It would have been fine. He can't think, as they slog through the fields in strained, seething silence, why he got so damn _protective._ He can't quite make sense of how utterly certain he was, in the moment, that Sirius couldn't handle it.

“Boils weren't enough,” he says apologetically, scuffing at a mole-hill as he waits for Sirius to finish pissing. “I should've let you – ”

“No, you shouldn't.”

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just leaves it, and that silence descends again; thick as fog between them until they scramble over the last fence. At which point, Sirius takes the bike out of his pocket, enlarges it again, and somehow fucks that up so badly that it completely fails to work when he tries to start it up.

James has never been more thankful for a magical malfunction in his entire life. Once Sirius stops swearing, threatening the bike, and snarling _“that won't help”_ at every helpful suggestion, they start knocking ideas back and forth and bickering about the relative merits of flair and brute force until they puzzle out the problem. Combined with the strange fetish Sirius has for handling the insides of machines, the familiar routine gets things back to something-like-normal within the hour. By the time they climb on the bike again, Sirius' mood has improved enough that he's full of plans to make it fly; nattering on about gravitational forces and nifty little charms he's going to use on the engine, as if that business with the farmer never even happened.

“I'll do it this evening,” Sirius declares as the bike starts up – silent and smooth, now; much improved by James' _“pointless tinkering”_ despite its owner's grouching on the subject. “When we get to Moony's, I'll scavenge up some parts from his shed, and I'll fly you to the fucking stars, alright? How's that for fucking– ”

Fucking _what,_ exactly, James never does find out for sure. Sirius just laughs, and it's hard to tell who or what he's angry with, and there's certainly no point in bloody asking. Still, it might well be the most romantic thing Sirius will ever say to him, even if the defensive, accusatory tone makes it sound more like bitter acquiescence to some perverse, disgusting sex act than he might ideally prefer. He does the only thing he really can in the circumstances, and teases Sirius about it for the ten minutes it takes to annoy him out of his resurgent bad mood, before letting the whole thing drop.

They don't stop again until they get to the tiny shop down the road from Remus' place, where they stock up on booze and other essentials, and Sirius distracts him from his perusal of the agreeably mad old shopkeeper's 'hunting trophies' by throwing a packet of biscuits at the back of his head.

“What shall we get for dinner?” Sirius asks, having secured his attention and ruined his rapport with the proprietor completely. “We're not going anywhere once we stop, Moony or no Moony, and I'm not going to have you whingeing on about your stomach all night if we have to sleep in the woods.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's a good thing, really, that Sirius is so casual about the prospect of _no Moony,_ because that's exactly what they find when they pull up outside the cottage. The locked doors and darkened windows are too unsurprising to inspire much disappointment – having explained more than once that he came here just the other day, and that everyone he asked says Moony's not been seen around these parts for months, James can't muster up more than a shrug and a _“looks like I was right.”_

“Like I said, I'm here for the Imp,” is Sirius' sullen response. “If he wants to avoid me, that's fine, but I want my fucking owl back.”

James still can't see why the little fiend would be knocking around here. Nor, for that matter, why Sirius is so worked up about her absence, when he's the one who's so smug about having befriended some random wild owl who _“comes and goes as she pleases”_ that he won't even name her properly. James never knows where the Imp is until she starts trying to peck his eyes out, and she's been gone for weeks in the past without Sirius even seeming to _notice,_ never mind insist on a bloody search party. There doesn't seem a lot of point in having that argument again though, when it's no real bother to wander around acting as “bait” while Sirius whistles and calls to her in his stupid made up owl-language and grumbles about Remus like he's kidnapped her or something. It doesn't take that long – he's fairly sure that Sirius only goes through the whole charade to make some kind of point about what they're doing here, because if he were _really_ looking they'd be at it all night, not done in less than half an hour.

“Right, then,” Sirius says, hanging upside down from the lowest branch of the last tree he searches. “Shall we break into the bastard's shed?”

 

 

* * *

 

They do just that, although – disappointingly – no actual breaking turns out to be necessary. Evidently, Remus values the contents of his shed about as highly as the assorted junk, tat, and literal rubbish actually deserves. The rusty muggle lock might as well be a toy, and the only enchantments on the squat, wooden structure are the basic adjustments to size, light, and temperature that come with the contract. Nothing whatsoever to deter an intruder – lucky that they're here, really, to whip the place into shape and set up a ward or two to keep out any passing junk-thieves. The plants are useful, after all, even if some of them have gone a bit feral, and certain sorts of people might be very tempted by a heavy length of chain with brutal metal cuffs for trapping wrists and ankles. If they didn't have any _standards_ which prevented them from appropriating something intimately involved in their dear friend's furry little problem for their own nefarious purposes. Which they wouldn't, of course, being naught but random hypothetical perverts with no sense of basic decency. It's really very fortunate that James is here to move the damn things out of sight where they can't give anyone any bad ideas.

Also, if he wasn't here to keep it safe, someone might nick the magnificent throne of an armchair which Remus has bafflingly chosen to exile to the most cluttered corner of the shed. That would be a genuine tragedy, because it is by far the finest chair James has ever graced with his behind – all rich burgundy leather and ornately carved mahogany, huge and grand and inordinately comfy. He gets it spruced up and out of the corner, arranged so as to provide him with the optimal vantage point while Sirius gets the bike laid out in the middle of the floor. Once he's shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoned his jeans, and made a start on the whiskey, he's about as comfortable as any man can be without the aid of a bed.

Sirius snorts when he catches sight of him, turning away from the bike to survey James with the combination of amusement, scorn, and ill-disguised attraction that usually precedes a complaint about _“showing off”._

“Look at you – five minutes and you're already King of the fucking Shed.”

“King James…” he mulls it over with a hearty swig of whiskey. “Does have a nice ring, doesn't it? Lord Protector of the ancient realm of Shed. Hey, d'you want to be my vassal?”

“Your fucking _what?_ ”

“You know, like a... ” James tries to mime the concept of _vassal_ and finds it surprisingly difficult to get across. “Like a special sort of – not _subject,_ exactly. I mean, you'd be a lord, just you'd swear fealty to me and be under my protection and-”

“I know what it _means,_ you twat, I just can't believe you _said_ it. Seriously, your fucking _vassal?_ What, do you want me to bend the knee and kiss your hand and pledge my fucking allegiance?”

The lazy, slow-burn heat that's been building since he watched Sirius bend over the damn bike intensifies, flaring up as idle whim transforms into die-hard fetish in the space of thirty seconds. He grins, spreading his legs a bit wider and making less than no effort to be discreet about adjusting the bulge in his tightening jeans.

“Fuck yeah, you could do a proper _oath_ and everything. Vow to be my faithful -”

“Servant?”

“Vassal,” he says, firmly. “Not servant. Nothing like a servant. You'd be a _lord,_ remember? You could have servants, if you wanted them. And I'd give you all my best squires – ”

“I don't want your fucking squires!”

Sirius is so genuinely _cross_ that James just blinks at him. Sirius blinks, too, seemingly struck between one beat and the next by the patent absurdity of what he just said. James' eyebrows go up, and Sirius' mouth twitches, and then they're laughing, and Sirius is protesting that _he's_ not the one who deserves ridicule, here.

“You're the one who gets off on fucking vassal role play. That's not a thing, you know. No one does that.”

“It _is_ a thing,” James says. “It's my thing. I just invented it, so it hasn't had a lot of time to catch on, but it's going to be all the rage any day now.”

The way Sirius is looking at him is a bit peculiar, now the sniggering has died down. Weirdly thoughtful, almost speculative.

“Is that so?”

“Trust me, you want to get in there while it's still a bit ahead of its time – soon it'll be sexy vassal costumes on every street corner and you'll look like you're just doing it to fit in.”

Sirius smiles, but it's sort of private, insular, like he's reacting to his own thoughts rather than James' (evidently wasted) efforts to amuse him. Murmuring inaudibly to himself, he shakes his head in that way that means he's deciding something. Then he takes his boots off, and his socks and his belt, and the buckle clacks when it hits the floorboards, alerting James to the fact that his own body seems to be trying very hard to hush itself, all of a sudden.

Sirius loses the t-shirt, too, all not-quite-artless grace like always, and it's a bit stupid, really, the way James _still_ feels that funny little shiver in his brain after so many years of watching the bastard move.

“You really mean it, don't you?”

“What?” says James, blinking. “Uh, what was I... you mean about the costumes? No, I was – obviously, I mean, what do vassals even – ”

“I mean you just don't care at all, do you? You really, truly do not give a fuck.”

“Yes, I do, what are you even -”

“I always thought it was bullshit. I mean, come on, it's not like you don't want to be _liked_.”

Sirius' voice is as incongruously soft as it's been since he started spouting these vaguely accusatory non-sequiturs, lulling James into letting the interruption slide.

“You want the whole fucking world eating out the palm of your hand. But you just assume _,_ don't you? That you'll always be the centre of it all, that it'll all just... rearrange. People, places – everything, James, it all _bends_ for you, doesn't it? You can do as you please, because the sun shines out of your fucking arse, and if someone doesn't see that, there must be something wrong with them.”

“Hey, come on,” James protests, more on principle than anything. “I wouldn't go that far.”

It's hard to disagree all that strongly when he doesn't really know what it is he's refuting, and he's not even sure that _Sirius_ knows if that was meant to be critical or complimentary or what.

“If you want to do it, then it must be alright,” Sirius continues, gazing at him with remarkable intensity for a person who is, to all intents and purposes, ignoring him completely. “It must be brilliant, mustn't it? Because nothing you're into could ever be sordid or shameful or _weird_ in any way.”

“ _Shameful?_ Seriously, come on, it's just a bit of role play – _”_

“Oh for – this is not about your stupid fucking _vassal kink_ , you inattentive twat. Fuck's sake, don't you _listen?”_

James snorts, torn between the urge to laugh and the urge to get up and strangle him.

“You know what, I'm not even going to – just, seriously. What is it about, then? Go on, enlighten me.”

Sighing, Sirius shakes his head, exasperation fading with unsettling speed into something more unreadable.

“You don't even... of course you don't. I bet you've never given it a moment's bloody thought, have you? I thought, you know – but that was stupid. I could be buried balls deep in your arse and it wouldn't cross your fucking mind that it might make you any less… that wanting it might mean you were... Fuck it. Never mind. It doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t have to matter, seeing as it’s you.”

James really _would_ strangle him, if he didn’t look so inexplicably _hopeful_ by the end that the last rhetorical question sounds less like passive aggression than self-reassurance.

Still really fucking _annoying,_ though.

“Would you stop that? You know it drives me nuts. Just come here and tell me what the fucking problem is so that I can fix it.”

“You think – ” Sirius laughs, low and disbelieving.

“I'm warning you, if I have to get out of this chair...”

Sirius' bare feet are almost silent on the dusty wooden floor as he crosses the room, stopping just out of reach. Wearing nothing but his low-riding jeans and the few choice bruises that have survived their last couple of healing sessions, not that James is in any way distracted by all that.

“There isn't any problem.”

Stepping forward, Sirius nicks the whiskey, takes a swig and sets it down out of reach. He smiles as he climbs into James' lap, straddling his thighs and bracing a hand on his shoulder. All bare skin and body heat and knees squeezing James' legs as he settles his weight, dark hair tickling James' face when he leans down to kiss him. Far too close for James to make any sense of what he's on about when he murmurs against his lips;

“That's the thing, Prongs. There's no fucking problem at all _._ ”

“Oh,” says James, tightening his hold on Sirius' hips and hitching him in a bit closer. “Well, that's alright, then.”

Sirius breathes a half-laughing _“yeah”_ and claims his mouth for a proper kiss. It's messier than usual – the angle isn't quite right, and Sirius is a bit overzealous with his teeth and tongue, like he wants to kiss him so badly he's forgotten how to do it. James would tease him about that, if it wasn't so absurdly fucking sexy to find Sirius so much more urgent and eager than expected; moaning at the slightest tug to his hair, the first suggestion of pressure applied to the bruise adorning his hipbone. Uncommonly responsive, even by his standards – James only has to grab his arse and bite his lip to earn himself the narcotic power rush of feeling Sirius go all shivery and uncontrolled and fucking _desperate_ for him.

“James, fuck, you – oh, come on, come on – ”

Shifting restlessly in James' lap, trying to grind up against his crotch with frustratingly limited success, Sirius bites his shoulder through his t-shirt. James retaliates by pinching and twisting the hard bud of a nipple, and Sirius whines around his mouthful of damp cotton, hips jerking in that helpless, involuntary way that drives James fucking mad.

“What's the rush?” James teases hoarsely, pinching harder. “We've got all night, you know.”

Evidently too wound up to know an empty threat when he hears one, Sirius butts his head against James' shoulder, seething “come _on”_ through gritted teeth like one of them is going to wind up dead if he doesn't get his fucking way.

“Come on, what? Hmm? Craving something specific, Sirius?”

He finds himself hissing the last syllable as a firm, long-fingered hand grabs him indelicately through his too-tight trousers. Wrenching Sirius' head back with a silky fistful of hair, he groans as much at the sight of the wanton bastard as the feel of those fingers _squeezing._

“Fuck – come on, then. What are you so fucking hot for? Tell me, Padfoot. Come on, what?”

Sirius lunges forward, mouth colliding with James', biting much too hard and then pulling away just as sharply.

“Fuck me.”

It takes a second – understanding hits his body in a bright, hot jolt of _ohfuckyes_ before his mind has quite caught up. Comprehension arrives in the form of a fucking _blinding_ mental image of Sirius bent over the armchair, saying it again as he spreads himself open – _fuck me, fuck me, fuck me –_

“Oh fucking _hell_ yes _please,_ ” he finds himself saying, words tumbling out in a breathless rush as his hands all but _fly_ to Sirius' arse. “Now? You want it now? Right now, right here in this chair?”

Sirius moans, kissing him without teeth this time, all pliant wind-chapped lips and open, willing mouth, sucking on James' tongue and pressing back into his hands. The clearest, not to mention fucking _hottest_ kind of _“yes”_ that James could ever ask for.

“Fucking hell, these fucking jeans,” James mutters, tugging uselessly at Sirius' back pockets, trying to grope and undress him simultaneously. “You and your damn _clothes_ , do you know what you do to me?”

Unzipping James’ trousers with rather gratifying haste, Sirius nips at his ear and whispers, _“tell me.”_

“You drive me mad, you know you do, you fucking teasing – _ngh -_ ”

Sirius' fingers ease their near-painful grip on his cock, stroking almost gently, and James groans, tilting his head back and his hips up, tightening his own hold on Sirius' arse. It's mostly reflexive, but the sound Sirius makes in response is so fucking needy it reminds him all over again just what it is that Sirius _needs_ so badly that his whole body can't help but fucking _beg_ for it. He does it again, digging his nails in through worn-thin denim, opening his eyes to watch Sirius lose another inch of control.

“God, look at you – got yourself all wound up, haven't you, Padfoot? Been thinking about it, yeah? Yeah, I fucking know you have. Every time you bend over, I bet you're hoping I'll just snap and give you what you're fucking _asking_ for, going 'round dressed like that...”

He has to stop, bite his tongue, balls tightening and cock twitching in Sirius' fist. It’s overwhelming, the effect he has, the power he can wield just by _speaking._ Feeling the rhythm of Sirius' hand on him stutter and speed up as he talks. Watching him, his fucking _face –_ all blush and bitten lip and frustration so intense he looks like he might kill or fucking _cry_ if James doesn't _fuck_ him right the fuck _now._

“ _Sirius,_ ” he hisses, yanking at his waistband hard enough to tip him off balance. “Off now. Take them off. No magic – stand up and strip for me.”

“Yes – uh, I mean, yeah. Yeah, alright.”

More flushed than ever and as close as he gets to graceless, Sirius scrambles off his lap. James expects him to rush, but for a moment he does nothing but stand there, gaze flitting from James' face to the floor at his feet and then back up again, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He looks almost nervous – certainly close enough to it to tighten James' chest and trousers and throat all at once.

“Pads?”

Sirius shakes his head, and turns around. Before James can object, the jeans are coming off, denim peeling away to reveal smooth, pale skin and that fucking perfect arse - pert and round and pretty as a girl's. And all _his_ now, all James'. His to touch and mark and use and fuck whenever the fuck he pleases.

_Fuck – oh fuck, I'm really going to. Here, now, you're really going to let me –_

“Sirius,” he says, choking a bit when he tries to swallow. “Come here, turn around. I want to kiss you, want to see your face while I – ”

“Don't.”

It's too loud for the space, for how close they are. Sirius kicks his jeans away like they've offended him, which would be funny, maybe, if James wasn't so turned on that every move the confusing, moody, gorgeous fucker makes goes straight to his straining cock.

“What?”

“Don't be boring.”

Sirius has the nerve to use his fucking lord of the manor voice, standing there stark naked, presenting his arse to James like a fucking paid whore and fucking _talking down_ to him. Looking over his shoulder, casual, dismissive, utterly fucking _fake._

“If you're going to behave like some tedious lovestruck – ”

James is _sort_ of aware of standing up, and grabbing Sirius, and turning and shoving and manhandling him until his legs bump up against the armchair _._ He's aware that Sirius isn't resisting properly, that getting him onto his knees on the seat is as easy as snapping the order. That he hardly even needs to _push._ He does, though, he pushes _hard._ Hand gripping tight round the back of Sirius' neck; forcing his head down, bending him over as far as the chair will let him go. He wants to fucking push. He wants so much that want is the only thing he's really, fully, _sharply_ aware of. He wants to push his way inside the stuck up brat Sirius is pretending to be and see how fucking _bored_ he is with six inches of cock rammed up his arse. Shatter the mask, shove right through it, take by force the intimacy Sirius thinks he can fucking withhold from him. He wants, he wants, and his trousers stretch around his ankles as he lines his cock up, fingers rough as they spread Sirius' cheeks, and he pushes and it – oh.

It doesn't _work._

“Shit -”

The head of his cock bumps and slides and fumbles and it won't go _in,_ and fuck, Sirius isn't wet like a girl, he's all tight and tense and dry. And this isn't right, he's doing it wrong, he needs to -

BANG!

The door blasts open, blown in off its hinges.

Crash, slam - a voice, a spell. Noise, intrusion, _danger._

Dust swirls up around them, a whipping blurring sandstorm, filling the room out of nowhere.

_“Stupefy!”_

James feels it skim past him as he stumbles in the snare of his trousers, trying to spin around and just fucking falling over. Landing hard, rattled into uselessness by shock more than impact. He _can’t_ fall over. He’s James Potter. He _never_ falls over, never mind in the middle of a crisis. He can’t be lying here bare-arsed with his trousers around his ankles and his wand out of reach, hearing Sirius hit the ground with a strangely muted _thud_ and doing nothing about it except blurting,

“Wait!”

It’s a stupid thing to say, but he’s not the only one saying it -

“Wait -”

Hang on, he _knows_ that voice.

“Oh my - _James?”_

Yes, he knows that voice, alright. He looks up, and sure enough, the figure looming over him is tall and thin and ragged ‘round the edges - immediately familiar even through the dust-swarm...

“Moony,” he says blankly. “What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Remus' kitchen is even smaller than James remembers it being. The last time he was here it was a snug fit for five people, but now it barely seems big enough for two. They'll definitely have to move to the living room when Sirius calms down enough to come out of the woods. It's so cramped that it makes Remus look like a malnourished giant – stooping to avoid the low wooden beams, and looming over everything no matter where he stands. Stone walls press in close around the squat round table, hemming James in when he tries to tilt his chair back, put his feet up, or in any way make himself at home._
> 
>  
> 
> _“One drink,” says Remus, yet again. “I mean it, James, I mustn't stay...”_
> 
> (featuring: a lot of rum, an anti climax, the notorious r.a.b, and a whole bunch of unresolved issues. oh, and also 'magic' by olivia newton-john.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so, it looks like the slow updates are here to stay, sorry about that. warnings at the end.

 

Remus' kitchen is even smaller than James remembers it being. The last time he was here it was a snug fit for five people, but now it barely seems big enough for two. They'll definitely have to move to the living room when Sirius calms down enough to come out of the woods.

It's so cramped that it makes Remus look like a malnourished giant – stooping to avoid the low wooden beams, and looming over everything no matter where he stands. Stone walls press in close around the squat round table, hemming James in when he tries to tilt his chair back, put his feet up, or in any way make himself at home.

“One drink,” says Remus, yet again. “I mean it, James, I mustn't stay...”

“Whatever you say, mate. Just loosen up a bit, will you? Pull up a chair and let's get some booze down you.”

He waves the bottle enticingly, but Remus isn't looking. Remus is peering out into the late-evening gloom, smearing grime all over the window with his sleeve. Fobbing James off with a non-committal “ _mhm”_ and fiddling with the taps, finding another excuse to stay on his feet.

“Moony. Mate. You're doing my head in. Sit the fuck _down_ , already.”

Remus sighs, rinsing out a pair of cheap looking goblets.

“Sorry, yes. I'll be with you in a moment. Do feel free to start without me.”

Having started on the rum as soon as he sat down, James takes a moment to twig that Remus is being _testy._ At him, of all people. Like it's _his_ fault that Sirius said those things. Like he's not the one who stepped between them, stopped this little reunion from going up in literal flames. At no small cost to himself, he might add.

“Padfoot almost _bit_ me,” he points out reproachfully. “He hates it when I make him transform, you know. I've not done in it in years, even when he -”

“I don't care.”

“ - wouldn't even – wait, what?”

“I don't care,” says Remus, loudly. _Very_ loudly. “Sirius. You and Sirius. I really _don't_ _care._ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, you're almost certainly not possessed."

James puts his wand away, only slightly disappointed.

“Thank you, Prongs,” says Remus dryly. “That's a real load off my mind.”

“Yeah, yeah...”

James seats himself on the counter next to the sink, which is high enough to put an end to Remus' looming. Close to the window, too, not that he's planning on watching for Padfoot like poor old Moony's still pretending not to do.

“I suppose you think you'd _know,_ ” he says, beckoning the rum over. “Most people do, unless they've had the training. It's a right pain in the arse for our lot, actually – no one thinks they're possessed until they're caught doing something really _nasty.”_

“Our lot?”

“You know, the Ministry.”

“Yes,” says Remus flatly. “Of course. The Ministry.”

James rolls his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing, sorry.” Remus turns away. “I didn't realize you'd completed your training.”

Niggling, pedantic, wilfully obtuse...

 _It's not his fault,_ he tells himself firmly, forcing a friendly grin.

“Ha, yeah, I wish. We've got a couple of years left, for our sins.”

Years. Even said so breezily, the word has the weight of a fucking tombstone. Years of practice and study and repetition to slog through before they're allowed to _do_ anything. Years of _yes sir,_ homework, beginner's guides and baby steps and waiting while the others catch up. Waiting _–_ for fucking _years,_ for _everything –_ waiting and waiting and waiting _._

“It's bullshit,” he says, drinking with renewed intent. “ _Three years._ Complete fucking bullshit.”

The future lurches up behind his eyes as he swallows slightly too much rum. He can _see_ it; the world outside speeding up while he and Sirius are locked up in the damn training centre, discussing the news in that sterile canteen when they should be making headlines. Passing the _Prophet_ around the table, the same conversation day after day.

“ _Did you see -”_

“ _Yeah, and -”_

“ _Awful”_

“ _If we'd been there...”_

If, if – the most ineffectual word in the English language. _If we'd been there._ How many times has he said it this year? How did _that_ become his fucking catchphrase? No wonder Sirius takes the piss.

_No wonder you still haven't managed to fuck him. No wonder he joined that stupid fucking cult._

“Anyway,” says Remus, abruptly. “I really must be going.”

“What?” James blinks. “Going? Where?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. It was good to see you, James. Despite the, ah... circumstances.”

“Wait, what the fuck are you on about? Moony, mate, this is _your house.”_

“Yes, well.” Remus smiles thinly, backing slowly towards the door. “More yours than mine, really.”

“What? Oh, come off it -”

Exasperated, he hops off the counter and grabs Remus by the arm, halting his retreat. Remus' fingers close around his wrist, so quick and so strong that he jerks with the shock of it. The candles flicker, and for one shadowed second James is staring at this wolf-eyed stranger who could snap every bone in his body without a second thought.

“Remus?”

Remus lets go, backing off a step. His shoulders sag, and he scratches at a fresh-looking scar slashed across his face, staring blankly over James' shoulder. He looks different, James thinks, even now he's back to normal. Harsher, more adult. A little bit undead.

“You alright?” James asks, rather disturbed by the way Remus' left eyebrow appears to be oozing blood. “Not in any trouble, are you? You know we'll help-”

“No,” Remus interrupts, with unexpected vehemence. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“You sure about that, mate? I mean, no offence, but you're acting sort of mental and you look like you just crawled out of a grave.”

Remus smiles properly, at last. “No offence.”

“Obviously,” James grins, relaxing. “It's not money, is it?”

“No, James, it's not money.”

“What, then? Wolf stuff?”

He's not sure if Remus laughs under his breath or just sighs in a weird way.

“I suppose you could say that. Honestly, I'm quite alright, appearance notwithstanding. I've just been rather busy – which reminds me, I really must be on my way.”

“Not this again. On your way _where?”_

“Work business, I'm afraid. Dreadfully boring, but someone has to do it.”

“You've got a job? That's brilliant, mate, well done. Sirius never said, or I'd have sent champagne or something.”

“Sirius doesn't know.”

“Oh yeah? Why not – is it something embarrassing? You're not doing fucked up werewolf sex with some perverted millionaire freak, are you? You can tell _me_ , you know. I won't judge.”

He waggles his eyebrows, but Remus doesn't laugh. Even his smile looks kind of strained.

“I'll have to bore you with the details some other time. Now, if you'll excuse me... ”

Remus turns away and walks right out of the kitchen, promising to leave the wards in James' hands without so much as glancing at him.

“Hey, hang on – ” James catches him by the door, reaching out and then stopping, pulling his hand back without making contact when Remus bloody _looms_ at him again. “What's the rush, if it's just some crappy job? We've not seen you in months, man – at least wait until Padfoot gets back.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Come on, Remus, don't be a twat. You can't just _go_ without even talking to him.”

“We spoke earlier,” says Remus coolly. “Though, as I recall, he did most of the talking.”

“You know what he's like,” James says, shrugging. “He was just a bit embarrassed. He's sensitive, you know, about the bumming and all that. He'll have forgotten all about it by the time he gets back.”

Remus looks at him really strangely, like James has something on his face and he's not sure whether or not to tell him about it.

“I do,” he says, obscurely. “I sometimes wonder whether _you_ do. You will be careful, James?”

“ _Careful?_ What, with _Sirius?_ ”

“I'm not saying that you shouldn't trust him. I'm sure you're not in any personal danger, given who you are. Just... keep your eyes open. Make sure you know what you're getting yourself into.”

“You _what?”_ James scowls, more confused by the moment. “Fucking _trust_ him? What the fuck are you on about?”

“Nothing,” says Remus, sighing as he lays a hand on the doorknob. “Just keep it in mind. You might want to ask him where he's been sleeping recently.”

“You _what_?”

“Goodbye, James.”

The door clicks quietly shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“He _left?”_

“Yeah.”

“And you just _let_ him?”

“What was I supposed to do, exactly? Sit on him until you'd finished sulking?”

Sirius gets that look in his eyes, like James has crossed a line _._ Like James is not, in fact, a fucking saint for not having punched him in the face the minute he dragged his drunken arse through the door. Like Sirius hasn't kept him waiting in this fucking empty cottage for literally _hours_ just to prove some fucking stupid point _._

“ _Sulking?”_

“Don't start,” James snaps, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him up against the door. “I'm fucking warning you -”

Sirius _spits_ in his fucking _face._

“Oh, yeah?”

Laughter, harsh and mad and mocking. Grey eyes, red mouth, spit wet on James' skin, dripping down his cheek. Hands that shove and feet that trip and James is nearly drunk enough to fall _._

“What are you going to _do_ about it?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up alone, besieged by nausea and dread. Something terrible has happened, or will happen, or is happening right now. James has fucked something up, or forgotten something – something important – why can't he remember? The fucking _world_   is ending. Or did it end last night? Something definitely happened last night.

Where the fuck is Sirius?

Where the fuck is James, right now?Why can't he remember?

 _Settle down,_ he tells himself. _Work with what you know._

That's easier said than done while puking one's guts up over the side of some random bed, but James has always been good at keeping his head in a crisis. He is _basically_ a trained Auror, after all. As such, he's able to deduce from the never-ending waves of sick and the overwhelming sense that he's about to die, that he has either a) been horribly poisoned, or b) got really, really, _really_ fucking drunk.

He does remember drinking. He remembers drinking rum, and that drinking rum always ends badly, and that it definitely wasn't his fault this time. Sirius is the one who wanted rum. Sirius is the one who fucked off into the woods and left him to drink it all by himself. Sirius and Remus. Yes, he remembers now; Remus was here, they were hanging out, and then Remus fucked off because of some weird _thing_ with Sirius. Some problem, some stupid issue neither of them can be bothered to let James in on, even though he's the one who's going to have to sort it out.

He feels better now he's got a bit of context. It's not the end of the world; it's the worst hangover in human history and a stupid spat between his mates. It's not what he thought it was last night. Whatever that was. He's in Remus' house, that's why it's so dark and depressing and his stag-brain thinks it smells of danger. He lies back, exhausted and relieved. He must be in Remus' bed, it occurs to him; the cottage doesn't even have a single guest room.

Remus' bed _..._ why does that seem important? He wonders whether Sirius slept here with him. Sirius, in Remus' bed. Sirius and Remus. Why does that make him so angry, the sound of their names together like that in his head? Sirius and Remus. What _was_ it that he thought last night? He was really _sure,_ he remembers that much. Really sure of _something._

Too annoyed to stay in bed, he gets up, reels a bit, and starts rounding up his scattered clothes. He scans the room for clues as he dresses, taking in the tangled sheets, the broken glass, the absence of his borrowed leather jacket.

Sirius _was_ here. James remembers watching him walk out, his silhouette in the door-frame; the perfect posture and the wand in his hand, loose at his side like he was finished with it. He remembers being confused. He remembers that he couldn't remember; there was something important, and he couldn't remember what it was, or where he was, or what the fuck was going on. He remembers saying _“who else?”_ again and again, _who else who else who else –_

– it's gone. It's blackness, nothingness. He can't remember.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He searches for at least an hour, but Sirius is nowhere to be found. The bike is gone, too; there's this big empty space on the floor of the shed, surrounded by a ring of junk parts and fag ends and bizarre miscellanea. James stares at it, swears his throat sore, and gets his mirror out.

Dead wasps crunch under his feet as he paces the floorboards, waiting for Sirius to pick up. Waiting, waiting, waiting _._ Is this what he does now? Is this what he _is?_ James F. Potter, professional fucking _waiter._

“Fuck this.”

He puts the mirror away. No sooner has his hand left his bloody pocket than he feels his ear starting to tingle, the buzz of the mirror through his clothes.

“Fuck off,” says Sirius, as soon James picks up. “What do you want? _”_

“ _You_ called _me,_ shit-head. Where the fuck are you? _”_

“At home, obviously. And I only called you to make you fuck off.”

“Home? What do you mean you're at _home?_ You are _not_ telling me that you're in fucking _London?_ ”

He can't see Sirius' eyes – the difficult git won't hold his mirror properly – but he _can_ see that he's fucking _yawning._

“Where else would I be?”

“Where else? _Where else,_ you fucking – ? How about _here,_ Sirius? How about _with me?”_

The image distorts, and Sirius' thumb blots out half his face as he fiddles with the mirror.

“I wanted some space.”

“ _Space?”_

“Stop repeating everything I say –”

“You've gone home without me, you've left me behind in fucking _Yorkshire_ , and the best you can do is _-_ ”

“You've got your wand, haven't you? It's not as if you're _stranded.”_

“That is not the fucking point!”

“Oh yeah? What _is_ the fucking _point,_ then?”

And the point is a hundred different things at once, and the point is that it's fucking _pointless._ The point is ' _you walked out on me'._ The point is _again_ and _for no fucking reason._ The point is, they're supposed to be happy now. They're supposed to be _together._

He isn't going to say that. He shouldn't _have_ to fucking say that.

“Go on,” Sirius pushes. “What?”

“I fucked you,” James says. “Last night. Didn't I? I fucked you up the arse.”

He's not sure why he said that. To make Sirius shut up, obviously – which it has done, very nicely – and maybe just to _confirm_ that his best guess is actually correct. Which it blatantly _is,_ but still. Still. Perhaps he shouldn't have put it like that.

“You remember?”

Sirius spins the mirror, his face becoming a pale, queasy blur in the glass, impossible to read or even really look at. James screws his eyes shut. Why the fuck does he feel _guilty?_

“Well, I mean...” he says. “I _was_ a bit, you know.”

“Plastered. Yeah, me too.”

“Yeah. So.”

“You don't remember.”

“No.”

Silence. _Awkward_ silence. What the fuck? They don't _do_ those. This. They don't do _this_.

Sirius' face snaps into focus again, tense and still and staring right at him.

“Good.”

“What?” says James. “Did you just – ? Hey! _Hey,_ don't you _dare_ put that fucking mirror down on me, you _–_ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

In retrospect, hurling his mirror at the nearest wall might not have been the best move James has ever made. It's not his _fault,_ of course – _none_ of this is _his_ fucking fault, so far as he can tell. But still. If he hadn't thrown it at the wall, then it wouldn't have shattered into a million little pieces, and he wouldn't have had to waste all that time hunting down every microscopic fragment hiding in the fucking floorboards so that he could put it back together. He would've gone straight home; he would've stormed through the door before Sirius had even finished pocketing his mirror, all _yeah, I fucking live here, genius_ and _how was that supposed to work?_ He would've made the point that there is _no fucking point_ in trying to avoid, postpone, or force an end to a fucking conversation with the other half of your fucking _soul._ Especially, he would've been sure to reiterate, when you live in the same fucking _flat._

They would have talked about it, that's the thing. About last night, last week, about fucking _Remus_. Sirius would almost certainly have told him about the whole _fucking_ _Remus_ thing, if James hadn't figured it out for himself in the time it took to fix the fucking mirror. He wouldn't care half so much, if Sirius had only _told_ him. He wouldn't want to set fire to the whole fucking universe every time he thinks about it, every time he wonders _how._ How did it happen, how did they do it? How often, how many times? How many things has Remus seen and done that only James should ever see or do? How much, exactly, does Remus know that James fucking _doesn't?_

His glass refills itself, and he manages to unclench his jaw just enough to empty it again. That's better – more booze will make it better. More booze will calm him down. He wouldn't even _need_ to calm down, if Sirius had told him. He'd be completely fucking _over_ it by now.

Sirius would still have acted like a total cunt, obviously, but he wouldn't have had all that time to work himself up – there's no way he would've pulled his fucking wand on James if they'd argued things out on the spot. Sirius would have thrown a few punches, picked a fight he didn't want to win, given James no choice but to hold him down and fuck some sense into him, right there on the living room floor. It would've been rough, angry, _bruising –_ James would've fucked him so hard that neither of them could fucking _forget_ it, not even if they fucking _tried._ Sirius would have felt much better, after that _._ They'd both have felt much better. James, for one, would feel much fucking better right _now_ if he'd spent the afternoon having passionate make up sex, rather than drinking alone in a pub full of fucking death eaters and trying to work out where it all went wrong.

He glances up from his drink, meeting his reflection's eyes in the grubby, gold-framed mirror on the wall behind the bar. His hair is a bit flat, but once he fixes that, he looks as good as ever, despite the dismal backdrop the pub provides, with its old-fashioned too-fancy furnishings and total lack of light. No one would guess that he's ever so slightly pissed and beset by bloody _inner turmoil._ He looks as cool as a cucumber – far too cool for this place, that's for fucking certain.

“What the fuck am I _doing_ in here?”

“Looks to me like you're having a drink,” says the bartender sagely, filling up his glass.

That sounds reasonable. Very, very reasonable. It might, in fact, be the most reasonable thing that James has heard all day. He tells the bartender as much, saluting with his drink before he downs it.

“Bit of a low bar, mind,” he adds, nodding his thanks for a very timely top up. “You won't believe the fucking day I've had.”

The bartender makes a sympathetic, deeply interested _mm_ sort of sound, like _tell me all your problems_ without the need for words _._

“It's not like I thought it was going to be _perfect_ ,” James says, happy to oblige. “Not, you know, _all_ the time _._ I mean, it is _sometimes,_ obviously. When he's not... when he _lets_ it be, it _is._ We are. This is _it_ , you know what I mean? Not, you know, this – ”

He gestures between them, smiling to soften the blow.

“Nice as you are, mate, don't get me wrong, but I don't plan on coming back to this snake-infested shithole ever again, so there's not really much of a future in it, is there?”

The bartender _mm_ s again, agreeable fellow that he is. He's got a very agreeable face, James decides; he's got the sort of face that would never bother anyone. The sort of face that lets you sit back, relax, and forget all about it.

Not like certain _other_ faces he could mention. Not sharp and fine like a needle in your brain, like a cactus-spine you can never pluck out. No attention-seeking mouth, no flashy show-off cheekbones, no soul-snaring silvery eyes that darken and change as soon as you get close enough to have a proper look.

As if summoned by the thought, a face appears beside his own in the wall-mounted mirror. The features are a close enough match that, just for a second, as he turns around, James does _almost_ think that Sirius has finally caved and come looking for him, that he can actually _go home_ now.

“James Potter?” says Regulus prissily, pissing all over his dreams. “Regulus Arcturus Black, heir to -”

“I know who you _are,”_ James scoffs. “What, did you lose your memory as well as all your hair?”

“I didn't _lose_ it,” Regulus snaps. “I had it _cut.”_

“Your memory? That's terrible.”

“My _hair,_ you muggle-loving retard.”

James sniggers into his whiskey, wishing Sirius were here.

“I see,” he says slowly, scratching his head. “So, just to be clear... you're telling me you look like that on _purpose?”_

Regulus looks about five seconds from stamping his foot, pointy pretty-boy face flushed pink with barely-stifled rage. It's brilliant. His hand is on his wand, and everything – one more push and he'll draw, James would bet his life on it. One more push and they might have themselves a proper fight.

“I didn't come here to listen to your stupid little _jokes._ Who do you think I _am_?”

“We've covered this,” says James. “I know exactly who you are. You're the pompous, jumped-up, milksop ponce who used to be my best mate's little brother.”

That does the job. Regulus whips out his wand almost as quickly as James does. He's aiming right at James' throat, and though his stance is as stupid as ever, he actually looks like he means business. Like he might have learned to put up a fight. He _is_ a criminal now, after all. A dangerous, violent criminal. It's practically James' _job_ to have a duel with him.

“You forget yourself, Potter. You forget where you are.”

In the gloom, with that particular expression, Regulus does look a tiny bit like Sirius. His eyes are too big and his mouth is too small and he's ruined his hair, but still, James can see the resemblance better than usual.

“I suggest you look around you,” Regulus continues. “Go ahead, take a good long look. Then I suggest that you lower your wand and _humbly beg my pardon,_ before _somebody_ gets hurt.”

James is just about to laugh in his face, but Regulus' sleeve slithers up his arm and it's _right there,_ the actual fucking _mark._ Bold and stark and startlingly ugly, and really, literally _branded_ onto Regulus' skin. His wrists are just like Sirius', as well. Same shape, same narrow bones.

“Shit,” says James, quietly. “You really are... ”

He's thinking about Sirius, of course. The brittleness, the graceless angry blundering through stealth last month, his name at the bottom of the list. Regulus did that – that's what James is thinking. Regulus rolled up his sleeve like some muggle magician and did _that_ with just a flash of forearm, and James needs to do something about it.

“That's right,” says Regulus, who seems to think that James is _scared_ of his stupid tattoo. “Now, drop your wand and I might still be merciful. It is a waste, after all, to spill pure blood without good reason. Even _yours,_ apparently.”

 _Death Eater,_ James thinks, fingers tightening around his wand. This is it, it strikes him. This is why he came here. Not to drink, but to have a fight that actually matters. A fight with a point to it; a fight with an _actual enemy._ He came here to have a fight with a death eater.

“Drop it, Potter! This instant! Don't imagine that I'll _hesitate..._ ”

An evil death eater. Like Regulus.

 _He's still in school,_ James' brain reminds him. _He's Sirius' little brother._

“Settle down, Black,” says the bartender, rather unexpectedly. “How about we all put our wands away, and -”

“I don't take orders from the likes of _you._ ”

“No,” agrees the bartender. “Not from me.”

Regulus' wand hand twitches as he looks away from James, glaring daggers at the friendly voice of reason like the snotty little brat that he is.

“This is so _stupid._ It's a waste of time – _he's_ a waste of time. It's like talking to an animal _,_ surely you can _see_ that? Look at him, he's hardly even _sentient._ ”

“Hey!” James aims his wand a bit more pointedly. “Mind your fucking manners, Black. I'm standing right here.”

“You _see?”_ says Regulus, gesturing angrily in James' direction. “It's ridiculous. Even if he did have the sense to join us, which I guarantee he _doesn't,_ he'd only go and spoil it anyway. He ruins _everything,_ he always - ”

“Wait,” says James. “Shut up. Did you say _join us?”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's fully dark by the time he gets home, and he's still not sure if he's outraged, amused, or just plain weirded out. It makes perfect sense that they'd want him, but it makes none at all that they'd think they stood the slightest fucking chance. Do they go around asking all their mortal enemies to join them? Who the hell do they think he _is?_

They let him go, that's the really weird part. After everything he said, after that hex he threw at Regulus, all those fucking death eaters just let him walk out of their evil lair like it was any normal pub. One quiet word from that bartender about _noble heritage_ and _orders,_ and two of the burliest, most lethal looking bastards actually stood in Regulus' way when he tried to follow him. No proper fight, no near-miss brush with mortal danger to liven up his shitty day and make Sirius wish he'd been there. Nothing. Just a load of hot air and bullshit and a grubby, muddled feeling, like his insides need a good scouring.

He half expects an empty flat, but no, the lights are on, and the radio is blasting muggle pop as he unlocks the door. That song again, that woman's voice floating in from the bathroom – _you have to believe we are magic, nothin' can stand in our way..._

Sirius is in the shower, singing along with remarkable gusto for a man who claims to hate this chorus. The door is ajar, spilling noise and light into the shadowed hallway, where Sirius' clothes are scattered carelessly along with his wand, his shoes, and what appears to be his motorbike. Hard to tell when it's in so many pieces.

“ _I'll be guiiiding youuu...”_

James smiles, and kicks his boots off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He won't forget, this time. He'll remember this tomorrow, every detail of it. The haze of steam and candle-glow, the soft warm light licking bare wet skin, the look on Sirius' face when he sees him. Soaking his clothes as he pins those narrow wrists to the wall, the water running hot enough to sting, the unexpected rush of being fully dressed while Sirius is naked. Turning him around, pressing up against his arse, _“I bet you loved it, didn't you?”._ Some wailing ballad on the radio and Sirius' half-stifled sobbing breaths, clenching heat around his spit-slick fingers and this repetitive chant inside his head, _remember, remember, remember._

“Do you want me to do it again?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: heavily implied (mutually) drunk sex w/ memory loss the next morning, an ableist slur, escalating alcohol dependance & vomiting.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __  
> “James?”
> 
>  
> 
> _“Shh, Pads, it's okay. Go back to sleep.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“What're you...?”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Nothing, shh,” James whispers, kissing Sirius' palm. “I'm just tying you to the bed so you don't run away in the morning.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, hey, i've had rsi for 10 months now and it doesn't look like it's going away any time soon, so this probably isn't getting any better. i will definitely finish this thing at some point, but consider this a hiatus announcement bc i have no idea how long the next update will take. thanks as ever to anyone who's still reading ♥ 
> 
> warnings: the usual, honestly. james is the worst, this is not how you d/s etc etc

 

“James?”

“Shh, Pads, it's okay. Go back to sleep.”

“What're you...?”

“Nothing, shh,” James whispers, kissing Sirius' palm. “I'm just tying you to the bed so you don't run away in the morning.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams that he wakes up with his arms around a stranger, and the room smells of sex and there's blood on the sheets and he can't remember who it belongs to. He knows he needs to stay awake but he can't seem to want to and he's heavy boneless slipping into darkness...

He wakes up and he's lying in bed and the stars are all wrong. Scattered, rearranged, and – no, it's fine, they've just been freshly painted. The room smells of death but it's only the flowers, and his pillowcase feels almost impossibly clean. It's nice. He thinks he'll stay a while. He reaches for Sirius' hand but he knows he's not there. He knows why, as well. He _knows_ he does. He just can't remember at the moment. The stars are still wet and dripping from the ceiling, and now that he thinks about it, he shouldn't really be here.

He rolls over into his own room, his own bed, and Sirius is moaning underneath him, and he thinks _yes, at last._ But when he moves, his memory spills out and soaks the sheets and there's a hole in his head and it's getting bigger, and he's forgetting it even while it's _happening._ And it's already over, already finished. He's alone and the room smells of sex and there's blood on the sheets and he can't remember _anything._

 

 

* * *

 

It's just a dream, of course. When he wakes up properly, he only has to turn his head and his whole fucking _body_ remembers. Sirius murmurs his name in his sleep and James is back in the shower, buried to the hilt and feeling him shiver, hearing his voice crack; “ _fuck that hurts, James, please -”_

He's not sure _why_ it hurt so much, now that he thinks about it. It's not like it was their first time, even if it is the only one he actually remembers. And besides, as galling as it is, Sirius is used to it, isn't he? Sirius is used to taking it. From fucking _Remus,_ who is... well, it's not fair. It's some kind of freaky werewolf mutation. No one is _naturally_ that fucking big.

He tells himself again that there are _other_ possibilities, other reasons for Sirius to be sexually interested in Moony besides that bloody basilisk between his legs. Remus is great. A really great bloke. People have definitely been known to fancy Remus, and no doubt their reasons were many and varied, and Sirius was only doing it to spite James anyway, so –

_So he did the thing he knew you'd hate the most._

He needs to stop thinking about that. Picturing that. Sirius chained to Remus' bed, revelling in the sheer twisted wrongness of the whole situation as he spreads himself open, gives himself away. Remus' long, scarred hands wrapped around Sirius' hips as he rams his big, hard –

Yeah, he _really_ needs to stop.

He kicks Remus out of the mental image and puts himself in there, on top of Sirius in Remus' bed. He wonders if that's how they did it, that night; face to face, with Sirius' legs hooked over his shoulders like they are in his head right now. Did he get to watch Sirius' eyes change as he pushed inside him for the very first time? Was he rough about it? Did he hold him down and really let him have it, give it to him good and hard just like he's always wanted?

Is that why it hurt last night - was Sirius sore from their first go around? Did James leave him aching, wrecked, unable to walk straight, feeling it every time he sat down?

“Fuck yeah... I bet you felt it all the way home...”

Smiling to himself, he straddles Sirius' hips and gives his nipple a good hard pinch.

“Come on, wake up, tell me all about it.”

Sirius groans, stirring underneath him, “...what? No. Why?”

“Because I want to know,” says James, bending down to kiss him. “How much did I hurt you, Padfoot? Did I make you _cry?_ ”

Just saying it makes him harder, just the thought, never mind the way tension ripples through Sirius' body, the catch in his breath as his cock twitches and he jerks against the ties around his wrists.

“What? _”_ says Sirius hoarsely. “James, what the fuck?”

“The other night. The first time we did it, the first time I fucked you...”

He pauses, thrown off by the weird expression on Sirius' face. “What?”

“This again?” says Sirius, eyes sliding shut like he's just too bloody _bored_ to keep them open. “I'm going back to sleep.”

 

 

* * *

 

Needless to say, Sirius does _not_ go back to sleep. He persists in trying to fake it for _ages,_ though; every time James pinches, pokes, and otherwise torments him into opening his eyes, Sirius shuts them and starts pretending to _snore_ again as soon as Wednesday night comes up.

It's fucking _rude._ Downright disrespectful, really – and yes, alright, of course it's _fun_ to find new ways of 'waking' him each time, but still. Sirius should count himself extremely lucky that James is too chivalrous to slap him in the face now that they're sleeping together.

“Seriously, come off it now. I just want to talk about -”

“Yes, but _I don't,_ ” Sirius snaps. “Jesus wept, man, learn to take a fucking _hint_.”

James asks why, of course, but it gets him nowhere. Sirius is dead set on being a twat, and the closest he gets to an explanation is a terse _“there's nothing to talk about”._ In fact, he acts as if James is the weird one for even wanting to know what happened, all _“we were drunk, we had sex, who gives a fuck about the details?”_ like he's just too _cool_ to have any fucking _feelings_ whatsoever about the fact that James has forgotten one of the most important moments of his whole entire life.

Eventually, James gets so sick of being called a _girl_ and being told to take it to his fucking _diary_ that it comes down to a simple choice; punch Sirius in the face, or drop the subject entirely.

He chooses to drop it. Because it's basically their honeymoon, and he's not even sure he'd stop at one hit. Because it's not worth the fight, right now. Because he upholds the chivalric code at all times, even when it's really tempting not to, and Sirius will tell him everything, eventually, as long as he plays his cards right.

Because he's just that fucking _nice._

 

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, it's not just that one thing that Sirius won't talk about. It's not that James doesn't _try_ to talk about their problems, it's just that he's dealing with an immature twat who can't handle guilt and who seems to have left his last crumb of sanity behind in fucking Yorkshire.

On Friday afternoon, for example, James says, “ _so, about Remus..._ ”

And Sirius says, “ _Remus is dead to me”,_ and turns into a dog.

(Padfoot takes longer than usual to return to human form, and he’s unusually low key about it, too. He just sort of stays where he was, sitting quietly at James' feet while James strokes his hair and pretends not to have noticed. He rests his head on James' thigh, and when James drags his nails up the back of his neck, he shivers and laughs like he's nervous and sort of _melts_ against him.

James isn't stupid; he knows an opportune moment when he sees one. So he digs his nails in, scratches harder, and asks Sirius how he'd feel about getting a tattoo, _“just there, for me, where only I can see it”._

“...not your initials,” says Sirius eventually.

James grins. “So, that's a yes? Because I was thinking antlers...”)

 

 

* * *

 

Saturday night is clear and cold, the sky above them stark and cloudless as they sit on the edge of the roof. They're wrapped in James' warmest cloak, sharing a spliff and a bottle of Ogden's while they race a couple of wheelie bins up and down the back alley below. The moon is almost full, its pale romantic light ghosting through each breath of smoke and glowing subtly in Sirius' hair, and James is tipsy, buzzing, high on life, and everything is beautiful.

And then the conversation turns to Regulus.

“I ran into him, the other night,” James says. “He tried to _recruit_ me, would you believe?”

Tensing up against his side, Sirius laughs. “Oh yeah? Where was this, then?”

James gets as far as “ _you know that pub?”_ before it all starts go downhill. He can't remember the name, so he just mentions _,_ for clarity's sake _,_ that it's the same place he turned upside down when Sirius went missing last week. The one whose windows he apparently blew to smithereens while fighting death eaters four against one, which that bartender was jolly decent about, to his credit, and Sirius is still just looking at him with this enraging combination of blankness and scepticism, so he adds -

“You know, the one where you had all those secret family meetings that I'm not supposed to know about. Yeah, that's right, I know what happened in September-”

Their bins collide and tumble onto their sides as Sirius abruptly stops playing and springs to his feet.

“Oh, _I_ see. So that's how it is, now?”

James does _try_ to understand, really he does. He asks _what_ is how _what_ is now, and makes all _kinds_ of allowances for the fact that Sirius is in the unenviable position of sharing blood with Regulus Black. He's really unbelievably _sensitive_ about it, but Sirius just keeps winding himself up with this ridiculous, out-of-left-field nonsense about James _spying_ on him, “ _like some kind of fucking criminal.”_

Whatever _that's_ supposed to mean.

“I honestly thought... ” Sirius aborts yet another sentence before it can start to make any kind of sense. “But one word from Remus fucking _Lupin_ and suddenly–”

“This has nothing to do with _him.”_

Sirius laughs derisively, standing right on the edge of the roof.

“Yeah, right. And you talk about fucking _trust?_ ”

“Listen -”

“Test me, then, go on. Just say the word.”

Sirius leans forward, head tipped back and arms flung wide.

“Go on, I dare you – tell me to jump.”

“It's a two-storey building,” James points out, lighting up his spliff again. “We're maybe ten foot off the ground?”

“Fuck you – ”

“I'm just saying, mate. I'm not sure you've thought this through.”

“Fine,” says Sirius, coldly. “Be like that, then.”

 

 

* * *

 

He dreams that he forgets it all again. He wakes up in a stranger's body, halfway through a life that isn't his. He's late – shit, he's _really_ late. He needs to get going right now this minute, but he can't leave until he finds a working mirror. There has to be one somewhere; this is his house, whoever he is, and there's no way he'd have filled it ceiling-to-floor with reflective surfaces that refuse to fucking _reflect_.

He flies through a blank shiny labyrinth, chasing his own shadow, and he turns left when he meant to go right and he falls and falls and–

 

 

* * *

 

“I hate you,” Sirius hisses, heels digging into James' back as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I fucking – James, _James,_ I hate – ”

James tangles their fingers together, gritting his teeth as he grinds against Sirius' sweet spot, slow and insistent and fucking torturous when all he wants is to –

“Give it to me,” Sirius says, broken and urgent and mindless. “Come on, make me feel it, make me – ”

“Beg.”

“No, no – ”

“Look at me,” says James, shoving in hard and holding himself still, arms shaking, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. “Look me in the eyes and _ask_ me for it.”

Sirius shudders, trembling around James' cock as his eyes flare open.

“Fuck me,” he says, sounding so damn _angry_ that James almost comes on the spot. “Harder. _Please.”_

James couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to, hips jerking, cock pressing in deeper as his whole body jumps to acquiesce. Sirius is so fucking _tight,_ so hot and eager and hungry for it, mouth slack and eyes glazed as James slams into him.

 

 

* * *

 

James is doodling on Sunday's _Prophet_ and trying to decide what his least favourite jam is, when he's rudely interrupted (mid-word, no less) by a grim sigh from across the table.

“Fucking hell, _again?_ ”

“What?” he says, looking up. “Is it that bloke with the moustache?”

Sirius ignores him, nose buried in his muggle newspaper, muttering darkly to himself as he turns the page.

“Sirius.” James prods him with his foot. “ _What_ again?”

Nothing.

“Sirius.” James tries a kick. “ _Sirius_.”

Sirius just stamps on his foot and keeps reading, shushing him distractedly from behind the so-called “ _Times”._ Which he reads about half a page of, less than once a week, just so he can act all superior and lord it over James because he knows what a “bomb” is. Like anyone even _cares_.

“Fine,” says James airily, tilting his chair back. “I bet it was boring, anyway. In fact, d'you know what? I don't even _want_ to know what it was. I don't give a shit. I won't even listen if you do try to tell me.”

“It's important fucking news, alright?” Sirius snaps. “So shut up and let me _read it._ ”

“ _Ooh,_ I'm _so impressed._ You're so _informed_ and _mature_ , my gosh, I'm just _dying_ to know what you're talking about.”

His sarcastic eyebrows and folded arms are wasted on Sirius, who just flips him the bird and turns the damn page, like he thinks he's fooling _anyone._ James rolls his eyes, and makes a grab for the paper.

“Come on, then, let's see what's so – ”

“Fuck off -” Sirius grapples with him, trying to yank the paper out of his reach. “I said _fuck off,_ you spaz – I'm trying to read about _dead people_.”

“No, you're fucking not,” James scoffs. “You're reading about that _musician_ again, I bet you fucking _anything_. Or sports. I bet it's sports. Give it here _,_ so I can – ”

“Fine!” Sirius thrusts the paper at him, ramming the table right into James' legs for good measure. “There, look. _'Eight dead._ ' Are you happy now?”

James takes it, rolling his eyes, and smooths out the crumpled pages as he settles back into his chair.

“You _see?”_ says Sirius, stabbing at the headline with his fork. “And look, there – look at _that._ Now tell me it isn't _important.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” James says, his gaze following the fork-prongs down to the grainy photograph. “Shut up and let me read.”

At first glance, it's just some random muggle disaster; mangled cars and broken windows, soot and smoke and frozen, panicked faces. Really sad, of course, but not especially _noteworthy_. Sirius stabs repeatedly at some blotch in the upper left corner, “ _do you SEE?”_ and on closer inspection, James _can_ sort of see what he's getting at. It does look a bit skull-shaped, if you squint, and those wisps of grey could be a snake, if you happen to know what you're looking for. Still, he's not convinced, and he's just about to say so when a face in the crowd catches his eye – nondescript and slightly blurred, but familiar in a way he can't quite place.

“Don't tell me you don't -”

“Shh,” says James, absently. “I'm thinking.”

It's no-one important, just someone he's met, someone he quite liked and – oh, shit, it's that bartender. The friendly one from Thursday night, who sided with James against Regulus, and stood up to all those death eaters to make sure he got out of the pub unscathed. Just standing there, in black and white, an oasis of calm in the middle of all that carnage. Gazing dispassionately up at what must, in fact, be the fucking dark mark.

“Shit...”

James looks closer, but it's definitely him, alright. That nice, affable bloke who couldn't possibly be an actual _death eater,_ despite his dodgy beliefs about blood purity and unfortunate choice of workplace. James was so sure – despite what it might have looked like, with all that talk about orders and everything. Despite what it obviously _was._ He thought it through and it made no sense; no _real_ death eater would go around protecting him, treating him like he's some kind of wayward teenager to be indulged until he sees the _error of his ways_. They're killers, murderers – they do things like _this,_ for fuck's sake _._

What kind of killer would smile about 'youthful indiscretions' as he clapped James on the back on his way out the door? James is their sworn fucking enemy. He literally _swore his enmity_ right there, that night, right in front of that fucking bartender. He's their worst nightmare waiting to happen. These muggles, these names on the list, they're just _people._ Just random harmless human beings – no risk, no _threat_ to anyone. Not enemies, not soldiers, not heroes of the light. That two-faced piece of shit bartender would've done a lot more good for his evil crusade by going after James than he'll ever achieve by slaughtering oblivious muggle civilians who can't even _defend_ themselves, never mind cause any problems for the fucking _dark lord_. He had nothing to gain by killing those people, nothing at all; he just killed them because they were muggles. Because he's a killer, that man, and the only reason he didn't try to kill James is because...

“You get it now?” Sirius interrupts.

Because James has pure blood and his last name is Potter. And also because -

“Oi, James.”

_Because they don't take me seriously._

“Yeah,” he says darkly, cracking his knuckles. “I get it. And I don't know about you, but I think it's about time something was _don e_ about it.”

Sirius grins, wolfish and delighted. There's a gleam in his eye as he leans back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “ _Finally,”_ he says. “Go on then, Captain. What did you have in mind?”

 

 

* * *

 

James looks around the empty pub, eyes peeled for any sign of an imminent ambush. It's quiet – _too_ quiet. Everything is tidy, polished, utterly still; set up to look like the place is as innocently _“closed”_ as the sign on the door would have them believe.

Nothing stirs in the shadows as he checks behind the bar, signalling _shh_ and _watch that door_ to Sirius. Nothing rustles, nothing creaks. No one jumps out of nowhere to attack them.

“Bastards must have gone into hiding,” says James. “They must've realized I wouldn't let this slide. I suppose that speech just took a while to really sink in...”

Sirius gives him this _look._

“What?”

“I _told_ you it would be shut, but would you listen–”

“No,” says James, annoyed. “And I'm _still_ not listening, because you're just trying to act like you _know_ things when actually you're _banned_ from this place, and you haven't been here in ages _._ I was here just the other day, and– ”

“Oh, right, how could I forget?”

“Fucking hell, I wasn't _spying_ on you. I was just...”

“What, soaking in the ambiance? _”_

“Listen – ” he grabs Sirius' arm, pulling him close when he tries to walk away. “No, _listen_ to me. I only came here in the first place because I was _worried_ about you. And rightly fucking so, by the way, but the other night wasn't about that.”

“Oh really, what was it about then? Catching up with old friends?”

“Would you can the sarcasm for a moment? I mean, people are dying here, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, I was the one who-”

“ _Here,_ in our city,” James presses on. “Practically on our _doorstep.”_

“I know.”

“I mean, that last one was basically a _personal insult._ He might as well have left a note saying 'up yours, James Potter. _P.S._ you're _irrelevant_.'”

“I– no, wait. You've lost me.”

“Never mind, it doesn't matter. The point is – ”

Sirius scrambles the point by touching James' face and gazing deeply into his eyes.

“Irrelevant?”

James tries not to squirm. “You know,” he shrugs. “Anyway, I'm just saying, who the fuck do they think are? And what about our lot – what are they playing at? It's really hotting up out there and anyone can see we need more fucking firepower. We don't have the numbers _,_ and while those fuckers go around recruiting _,_ the Ministry won't even let us _fight.”_

Sirius moves in closer, studying James like an engine he's taking apart; searching for the faulty gear, the broken wire, the reason it's not _working._

“I didn't realize it was getting to you like this. I thought you'd stopped...”

“What, caring?” James needs a drink. “Thanks a fucking lot, mate, that really helps.”

“No, not just– ”

“I have a plan, you know. I'm not just waiting 'til we're _twenty two_ to do anything halfway useful. I mean, the war will be over by then.”

“I _know_ ,” says Sirius, startlingly earnest.

“So...”

“So?”

“So,” says James. “I've been working on something, you know. Building up a network. I've got contacts in the underworld.”

“Oh, have you, now?”

“Yeah,” James lies. “Of course I have. What, did you think I'd spent the whole year just moping around in my pants feeling sorry for myself?”

“Well...”

“Exactly,” James says, tucking a distracting coil of silky black hair behind Sirius' distractingly perfect left ear. “I've got a really solid back up plan and everything. Just on the off-chance, you know. I've covered all the bases.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Really, _realistically,_ it should all have worked itself out long before that first tiny exaggeration could escalate into a _lie._ Which is a strong word for it, honestly, but almost certainly the one Sirius will use if he finds out now that James' contact back in the park was just a random briefcase man with a conveniently secretive demeanour. Later – much later – James will tell him all about it, and they'll have a good laugh, probably, because all's well that ends well, right? But James is really _not_ in the mood at the moment, and besides, Sirius is unlikely to see the funny side of all of this while they're crouching in the bushes outside his childhood home.

Staking out Grimmauld Place is beginning to seem rather less inspired than it did a couple of hours ago, but he's _committed_ to it now. He has to make this work; not just for his pride, but for Sirius' sake. Because Sirius looks about five seconds from blowing up the whole damn street, but he's still here after two whole hours of nothing. Because he believes in James. Because he'd follow James anywhere. Because James is fucking _worth_ it, isn't he? James is always worth following. Fucking _always._

“There,” he says, confidently. “Over there, that bloke with the chin. I'm told he's your cousin's new coachman.”

“Which?”

“What?”

“ _Cousin._ ”

“...Bellatrix?” James improvises. “Obviously?”

“No, _not_ obviously. She's not the default for 'cousin', she's the default for 'evil bitch'. And besides, she's spending the week in the country _,_ so why would– ”

“Shh, relax,” James says soothingly. “All your cousins are evil bitches. Let's just stick to the point.”

He feels better already; sprinting down the road in hot pursuit with Sirius by his side. It'll all work out. He's James Fucking Potter, he'll _make_ it work out. He just needs to follow his instincts.

“Quick!” he shouts, speeding up as he veers around a pram. “Catch that bus! He's getting away!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius is getting suspicious again; grey eyes narrowed dangerously under the brim of his recently-liberated police hat.

“You're _sure_ you don't have anything you want to tell me?”

Maybe the disguises aren't helping as much as James had anticipated.

“Er...”

Maybe James should just –

“Er... er... ” Sirius mimics irritably. “Well?”

_Just what, give up? What the fuck is wrong with you?_

He smiles winningly, squeezing Sirius' shoulder.

“You look _really_ good in that uniform.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when he realizes that the game is up, and that Sirius is only playing along out of spite _._ It's harder still to know when Sirius stopped believing in his plan in the first place, and James can hardly ask, given their current impasse. He’s got to keep his own ruse going until Sirius throws in the towel and confesses that he _knows_ it’s a fucking ruse and is just trying to give James enough rope to fucking _hang_ himself. Which, needless to say, James is _not_ going to do.

He rips open another sachet of salt, adding a bright white smile to his tabletop self-portrait. Black pepper eyes stare up at him, framed by round ketchup glasses. That smile is too big; it's made the whole face look sort of _mocking._ It occurs to him that mustard was the wrong medium for capturing his eyebrows. It also occurs to him, roughly simultaneously, that he might feel more like a fucking _winner_ if he wasn't stuck in a weird-smelling off-white asylum for the criminally mundane called, of all things, fucking “ _Wimpy's”._

Sirius re-emerges from the chattering throng by the counter, carrying himself (and a pair of food-loaded trays) in that easy, annoyingly charismatic way that makes people think he's some kind of fucking _celebrity._ Three teenage girls in tiny skirts turn to watch as he saunters past, whispering and giggling and nudging one another, and James could swear he hears the word _autograph..._

“There,” says Sirius, dumping a tray right on top of James' portrait. “Anything you want to say to me?”

“Did you get my pie?”

“Yes, of course, I did,” says Sirius, sarcastically. “Even though they don't _sell_ pumpkin pie here, the chef was only too happy to whip some up as soon as I mentioned your name, and -”

“Shut up,” James says, kicking him under the table. “Is there anything _you_ want to say to _me_?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “I hope you choke on a chicken nugget.”

“What's a chicken nugget?”

“Fucked if I know,” Sirius shrugs. “I ordered them because they sounded awful. Is there anything _else_ you want to tell me?”

And somehow, that does it. This is, first and foremost, a battle of wills. A test of stamina, endurance. A game of _who will last the longest._ This is a competition, and James is going to fucking _win._

“I was thinking of growing a moustache,” he says. “Like whathisname, you know. I think it would really suit me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He slams another shady looking character into yet another grubby brick wall.

“Who do you work for?”

“Uh... Woolworths?”

“Never heard of them,” James says, looming in closer. “Who do _they_ work for?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius slow claps at him as the obliviated muggle strolls away.

“What?” snaps James, at the end of his tether. “Like _you_ knew it was a fucking _shop_?”

“As a matter of fact– ”

“Oh, come off it, you did _not._ ”

“I know a lot of things you don't know about.”

It would be wrong to smack that superior smirk off Sirius' face. It would be unchivalrous in the extreme. Even if it does lead to sex. Which, realistically, it definitely will _._

Would.

Definitely _would._

If James was going to do it, which he certainly is _not_.

“You are so fucking full of it,,” he says, punching Sirius in the shoulder instead. “Why didn't you say something, then? If you _know_ so much about everything.”

Sirius' lip curls in that way that means he thinks he's won at something he regards as beneath his fucking notice in the first place.

“I thought you didn't _want_ my help.”

“I never fucking said that.”

“Just follow my lead, _darling,”_ Sirius quotes, preening like a twat. “I've got a _master plan._ ”

James thrusts his fists deep into his pockets.

“Excuse _you_ , I don't sound anything _like_ that. And I think you'll find that I _do_ have a plan.”

“Of course you do. We're going to hit these fuckers where they live, right? Any minute now...”

“Oh, come on!” James explodes. “Give me a break! How am _I_ supposed to know where they actually fucking live? If anyone should know that, it's... well, never mind.”

“No, I get it,” Sirius says, eyes alight like this is what he wanted all along. “That's what I'm here for, isn't it?”

“For fuck's sake, don't start that again.”

“Family connections, inside information– ” Sirius is impersonating someone else now. Fuck knows who – probably a figment of his paranoid imagination. “Could prove very useful if properly managed.”

Enough is enough; James grabs him by the shoulders and slams him into the wall.

“Back to reality, Padfoot. I really don't need this right now. ”

“ _You_ don't?” Sirius shoves him off. “How the fuck do you think _I_ feel?”

James has to turn around.

_Walk it off, walk it off, walk it off._

“I don't give a single flying fuck how you feel,” he seethes, mostly under his breath. “You feel like picking a fight, as usual. You _feel_ like being a complete and utter cunt when I'm having an extremely fucking _difficult_ morning and– ”

“I can _hear_ you, shithead. Say it to my face.”

James turns around. It's a mistake – he's got Sirius up against the wall again before he knows it; shoving a leg between his thighs and watching his lips part, close enough to bite.

“My fucking _fist_ will say it to your face if you're not fucking careful.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Sirius laughs. “Go on, then. What are you waiting for?”

James presses insistently closer, tightening his grip and trying to keep his breathing even as he feels Sirius shift and squirm and harden against him.

“Oh yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you?”

This isn't a mistake at all – this is an excellent idea. This will take his mind off that persistent sense that he's been making a fool of himself for the last six hours. This will put them back to normal. He won't hit Sirius in the face – he knows as soon as their lips meet that he really would feel like a villain. He'll just use the threat to get into his pants in an excitingly public and therefore _forbidden_ venue, and reassert his status as Sirius' one and only fucking god.

He groans into Sirius' mouth when he feels him struggling in that way that so clearly means _ravish the fuck out of me_. He's so hard already, he can't even take the piss out of Sirius for being so blatantly hot for it. Fuck, it's been forever since they touched like this. Two hours at _least_ , and that was just an angry handjob in the bushes – it was extremely secluded, and Sirius said “ _desperation doesn't suit you”_ and wiped his hand on a leaf like it was _inconvenient,_ and it didn't make James feel even slightly cool. This is different; he's in charge now. He knows what he's doing – of course he does, how could either of them even think of doubting it? Who cares if he couldn't find any stupid fucking death eaters? His hands feel sure and strong, trapping Sirius' against the wall when he tries to shove him off again.

“Get on your knees.”

Sirius shudders, and James can feel him slipping, wound up so tightly and ready to fall.

“Make me.”

God, it would feel so good just to –

“ _No,”_ he says, mostly to himself. “Just – look, just do it, alright?”

He's not sure what rattles him more: how much he wants to hit Sirius, or how much it gets to him when Sirius laughs in his face and breaks his grip like his fingers are cobwebs.

“I don't think so,” Sirius says, somehow more than a foot away from him and lighting up a fag with an air of bored disdain. “Abject failure doesn't really do it for me, do you know what I mean?”

James does, obviously. For one horrible moment, he actually wants to cry. _Failure_ is just – it's such a harsh spin to put on all of this, and it's just not fucking _fair._ He really fucking _tried,_ and he shouldn't have even _had_ to, because it should've been a piece of fucking cake. But he did – he has – all day, for Sirius' benefit as much as his own, and now Sirius won't even give him one tiny little ego boosting blow job to make him feel better, just because James is a man of fucking _principle_ who refuses to hit him in the face.

He's not going to cry. He's going to make _Sirius_ cry, then they'll see who's the fucking _loser_ around here. He can almost feel the sting of impact in the back of his hand, almost see the redness flare on Sirius' cheek–

_No, no, walk it off, walk it off. Count to five or something._

He gets to _two_ then kicks a wall.

It hurts like shit.

Sirius _laughs_ at him.

He does it again, a bit harder.

“Fuck, ow, fuck shit fuck – ” he rounds on Sirius, resisting the impulse to clutch at his foot and howl like an idiot child. “Shut your fucking mouth, Black. Like you could do any fucking _better?”_

Sirius just laughs at him again, derisive and unfriendly, like James a really _weak_ sort of joke _._

“Mate, honestly, _Wormtail_ could do better than this _._ ”

 

 

* * *

 

James isn't sure how t hey got from there to fucking Hackney _,_ but he really shouldn't be surprised. Sirius is, after all, quite literally _obsessed_ with his stupid bastard cult, as he made clear in the last hundred rows that began and ended with its designation. As if “ _fighting club”_ were somehow _less_ ridiculous _._

What does come as a real (and deeply unwelcome) surprise, is that Sirius' obsession apparently extends to this bloke called “ _John”_ who seems to be in charge of everything.

James vaguely remembers the face, if not the fucking bullshit name. The fucking _smiling man_ , with his weak chin and grey hair and off-putting habit of shouting about balls for no reason. The minute they're introduced, James remembers the fucker prowling around right before Sirius had that ill-fated fight – it's his fault, this “John”, that Sirius sucked that random massive bloke off. “John” is a poser and a fraud and a worthless piece of shit, and also apparently Sid's precious dad, which useless bit of trivia only adds to James' total contempt for the man and everything he stands for.

Not that he knows all that much about what this so-called “John” claims to stand for. Sirius made a big show of explaining it all, but only because he obviously knew that James was in no mood to fucking listen. Mostly what he got out of the five minute monologue about “ _patrols”_ and “ _the people's militia”_ and this would-be-mysterious “ _secret plan”_ was a nagging suspicion that Sirius has been brainwashed. A suspicion which solidifies into absolute certainty when James comes face to face with the weedy, middle-aged man who is apparently going to lead muggles, squibs, and every wizard worth his salt to glory and triumph and freedom by beating up all the death eaters in England with his bare fucking fists _._

“So, _John,_ ” he says, eyeing up the man who Sirius apparently regards as more capable than him of hunting down the forces of evil. “Tell me. What kind of a name is _that?_ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

John smiles his creepy smile, and lays a creepy, proprietary hand on Sirius' shoulder.

“This isn't how we do things, Jamie.”

“Yeah, I know, but -”

“No buts,” says John, absurdly. “No exceptions. Even for you, lad. You know the drill.”

“Excuse you, mate,” starts James, fists clenched and ready to go.

“Shut up,” Sirius hisses, apparently willing to permit this creepy old man to call him 'lad' and touch his neck as much as he fucking pleases. “Listen, John, he's completely harmless. He wouldn't -”

“Oi! I am _not_ fucking _-_ ”

“Shut _up,_ James.”

“Don't tell me to shut up,” he says sharply, yanking Sirius away from those wiry prying hands. “Come on, we're getting out of here. This bloke is a fucking nutjob, and he's done something to your brain. I knew it when you said about the _grand plan_ and all of that. I'll sort it out when we get home, so -”

“You don't tell me what to do,” says Sirius, shoving him off. “Who the fuck do you think are?”

John smiles.

James sees red.

Shortly thereafter, he sees the inside of a wheelie bin, and a pair of unreasonably muscular henchmen slamming the fucking lid. It's not pretty; one of the fuckers has terrible acne, and there's an _enormous_ fucking rat scrabbling around amongst the bin-bags. James breaks his thumb at some point, and – much worse – he has to touch a banana skin. With his _bare hand._ It's the single most disgusting thing ever to happen to anyone, and when he hauls himself out of the fucking bin, Sirius isn't even waiting for him.

Someone is going to pay for this. Someone is going to really fucking _suffer._ Someone is going to beg for James' forgiveness before this shitty fucking day is done.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (carry on my wayward son plays in the background)
> 
> THE ROAD SO FAR: conflict! jealousy! death eaters (or lack thereof)! a throwaway line from like three episodes ago foreshadowing a major plot point! 
> 
> (dramatic close up of james potter swearing revenge on the world bc he got thrown in a wheelie bin)
> 
> NOW.....

 

To his credit, Sirius does try to call this time. James is barely two blocks away when he feels his mirror hum; striding purposefully through the streets of Hackney with no real destination in mind. No plan, no goal, just walking. Angry walking. Right foot, left foot, fuck you, fuck you -

His ear tingles, hot and insistent. He ignores it.

He walks until he gets to a shop with booze in the window, and then he walks some more. His mirror hums again, and he ignores it. Sirius can wait.

He thinks about going home, but that's exactly what Sirius expects him to do. That's what Sirius _wants._ For James to sit around in an empty flat just drinking and stewing and obsessing over him until he deigns to come back from his precious _patrol._ Well, sod that for a game of soldiers. James is the master of his own bloody destiny, and James is going to stay out all fucking night and drink and laugh and have a good time.

Sirius seems to forget that there are plenty of people who'd literally kill for the chance to be James Potter's best friend, never mind his _lover_. People who'd count themselves lucky to play any part in any plan James came up with, even if it was a bit sketchy on the finer fucking details. People who would never, under any circumstances, side with some creepy old nutjob over James and then stand idly by while he got dumped in a _bin._

 

 

* * *

 

 

“James?” says Peter, wide-eyed and startled as he opens the door.

“Pete, my man! Come here! How the devil are you?”

“What, er...”

“Good stuff,” says James, clapping him on the back and handing over his sackful of booze as he crosses the threshold. “Put that on to chill, yeah? The rest'll be delivered with the snacks.”

“Snacks? What do you mean, snacks? James–”

James rolls his eyes, leading the way into the kitchen. “You know what _snacks_ are, Peter. Heaven knows you eat enough of the -”

“Why?” Peter interrupts him. Then, like he's just twigged how weird that is; “Sorry, sorry, just – I just mean... _why?_ ”

James waves it off, sloshing a bit of whiskey on the prissy paisley tablecloth as he sits down next to the fruit bowl. It's shaped like a banana. How gratuitously fucking _annoying_.

“Why what?”

“Why- why _here?_ ” says Peter. “I mean, why are _you_ –? I mean, the last time I saw you, you – you said – you said you –”

“Said what?” James prompts helpfully, toying with an apple. “Come on, deep breaths...”

“You said I was a useless, boring p-paper-pusher who cares more about my useless boring job than my friends,” says Peter, rushing through the words like they're on fire. “And then you said that Sirius was right about me and I'd always been – always been jealous. Of _him._ And I never pull my weight and I never – and I said I _would_ help you look for him but you said– ”

“Oh, _that?”_ James laughs, tossing him the apple. “Water under the bridge, mate. I'd forgotten all about it.”

Pete stares down at the apple in his hand like he's hypnotized. Maybe just surprised that he caught it; James is always telling him he's not as clumsy as he looks, but Peter never seems to really take it in.

“Yeah, mate, nice catch,” James says encouragingly. “So, back to business, then. Who shall we invite? I've put the word around, of course, but if you want some of your lot, best get on the floo now before the place fills up. Hey, what was the name of that bird you fancy?”

“Mandy,” Peter says, snapping out of his trance with a funny little twitch. “She works in Complaints. We – we had coffee. A few times. Three times. Um, uh, James, did you get my letter?”

James thinks about the pile of unopened post heaped up on the bedroom floor. Sirius set fire to it, the first time James went down on him. _Accidentally,_ like he couldn't even control his own fucking _magic_ and – yeah, no. Best not to think about that.

“Nope,” he says. “What letter?”

“Oh....um, never mind. It was – it wasn't anything, really. Did you find S-Sirius?”

“What? Oh, yeah, of course I did.” James lobs a banana into the bin to work off the violent surge of bitterness. “Always fucking _do,_ don't I? Not that he's _grateful,_ obviously. Doesn't know the meaning of the word, does he?”

“Um, no? N-not that I'd noticed.”

“Come on, Pete, there's no need to cringe like that. I'm not going to lay into you for fucking _agreeing_ with me, am I? Just because I'm shagging him doesn't mean – ”

Peter does a full-on double-take and drops the apple, mouth hanging open and eyes bulging madly, so comically amazed that James cracks up.

“Oh mate, your _face...”_

“Oh, _oh,_ oh, you're _joking -_ ” Peter looks unfathomably relieved, all but bouncing on the spot as he rushes to join in the laughter. “Hahaha, of course.”

“What? No, no, I'm really going out with him. I mean, fuck knows _why,_ but there we go. No, it's just you looked so... well, _surprised.”_

“But – but -”

“Oh, come on,” James scoffs. “It's hardly of the blue, here, mate. I mean, he's not exactly _subtle,_ is he? You were there that night in seventh– ”

“Yes, I – I _know,_ but _you – ”_

“I had Lily,” James says, suddenly annoyed. “I was going to... things are different now. What, you thought I didn't fancy him or something? I mean, seriously, you've fucking _seen_ him, right?”

“No – I mean, yes – I mean -”

“There we go, then.” James takes a long swig of whiskey, swallowing the urge to jump on the table and start shouting about how hopelessly fucking _in love_ he is with that fucking impossible bastard _._ _“_ Anyway, never mind about Sirius now. Tonight it's all about you and me.”

“Oh,” says Peter. “Um. It is?”

“ _Hell_ yes,” James says, extremely convincingly. “You and me, Peter. Wormtail and Prongs. We're going to have ourselves a _party.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

His mirror doesn't hum again for hours. Hours and hours. Not that he's waiting for Sirius to call, of course, because he's much too busy enjoying his party. Or at least he will be, any moment now, just as soon as it gets into swing and the cool, sexy, fashionably late crowd arrive to liven things up a bit. Technically, at the moment, it's not so much a party as a small gathering of small-minded people making small talk and stuffing their faces with cocktail sticks. Trust Peter's work mates to arrive early and clog up the front room with their stupid office gossip and their cheap white wine and their screamingly expensive watches glinting from the pockets of their smart-fucking-casual dress robes. Five of the fuckers, every one a boorish cunt and none of them even slightly interested in James' funny stories or generous attempts to get a good party game going. One of them even called him a _poof_ earlier, laughing it up and slapping Peter on the back as if poor old Wormtail were part of his so called _joke._ That's when James declared the kitchen an independent territory, set up camp on the table with the three people he can actually stand (a low bar, really, since one of them is bloody Bones), and warded the door to recognize yuppies.

So, yeah, it's not that James _wants_ Sirius to call him, it's just that if Sirius insists on doing so – which he definitely will – then this would be a pretty good time. James won't answer, obviously, but he'd get a much-needed kick out of ignoring it. He might even pick up briefly, just for a moment, just for long enough to give Sirius a glimpse of the excellent time everyone is having without him. It would, if nothing else, get James out of this interminable conversation about Frank and Alice's fucking wedding – complete with a million photographs, all of which are basically identical and none of which feature James because James wasn't fucking _invited._ Which makes it more than a bit rich to expect him to fake any kind of interest at all, when you think about it.

He should just tell Frank to fuck off, but then he'd be stuck with just Bones for the foreseeable future. He'd crack within minutes, and end up back on the fucking sofa with Peter and his colleagues and his noisy fake-redhead – Molly or Marnie or whoever, who laughs after every single thing she says even though none of it is even slightly funny. No, five minutes of that was more than enough for one lifetime, and besides, it's always weirdly hard to be rude to Frank. Maybe because it takes a really heavy dose of rudeness to even register. He'd have to go all out, and then he'd feel like a dick. And then Alice would go off and tell Lily, and Lily would sigh and go “ _this is why I dumped him, you see”_ and feel really vindicated, as if being less than a hundred percent lovely to every single person at every single moment is a cardinal fucking sin. As if _she's_ never told Frank to his face that no one cares about his fucking flitterbloom.

They're on to the honeymoon now – Borneo, rare plants, “ _fascinating”_ Bones says, straight-faced and punchably earnest _._ Snapshots of food and funny signs and endless foliage, Frank and Alice beaming their heads off; laughing and posing and mucking around, kissing with a fuck-off-massive snake wrapped around their shoulders – obnoxiously happy, obnoxiously in love. James was going to take Lily to Venice. Much more romantic than some bloody rainforest. He was going to serenade her on one of those special boats and everything.

 _Her loss,_ he tells himself. He needs another drink. He feels sad for no real reason. It's not Lily, not _just_ Lily, it's just... fuck knows. Everything. He wonders if Sirius would fancy going to Venice with him. Probably not. Amsterdam, maybe –

A door slams, somewhere out front. Frank pauses mid-anecdote, and somebody screams. Properly _shrieks,_ shrill and alarmed – James jumps off the table, drawing his wand alongside the others.

His mind races – _how many? Did they follow me? Wish Sirius was here –_

He runs into Peter, bowling him right over as he rushes through the living room door and then comes to an abrupt halt. The source of all the commotion is scowling at Peter's loudly-hyperventilating girlfriend, wild-eyed and covered with blood, snapping _“calm the fuck down, it's not even mine.”_

“James,” says Peter, sounding rather put out. “Sirius is here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I say, Black, are you alright?”

“Shut up, Bones,” says James, still staring at Sirius. “He's fine, aren't you, Padfoot? He just likes making an _entrance.”_

Sirius' hand grips his shoulder, brutally tight. “We need to talk.”

“Drama queen,” says James, trying and failing to shrug him off. “Why have you got all blood on you? Do I need to help you dispose of the body or something, because – ”

Whatshername says _“oh my god”_ loud enough to interrupt him, and keeps saying it louder and louder, _oh my god oh my god oh my GOD,_ like it's not perfectly obvious by now that everything is fucking _fine._

“James,” says Peter, on his feet again and tugging at James' sleeve.

“Not now, Wormtail.”

“ _James,_ ” Peter repeats, weirdly sharp and insistent. “Can you _deal_ with this, please?”

“I _am_ dealing with it,” James says. “What does it _look_ like I'm doing?”

“I – I mean, as in... deal with it somewhere _else.”_

 

 

* * *

 

“I need a spliff,” James says, once he's hauled Sirius into Peter's spare room and shoved him onto the squashy bed. “Have you still got the stash in your jacket?”

Sirius ignores him, staring at the wall. He doesn't even blink when James snaps his fingers under his nose, just sitting there where James put him while James rummages through his pockets and hooks out the stuff. It's weird – all the momentum seems to have drained right out of him in the space of a couple of minutes. James tries a kiss, and Sirius just sort of lets it happen, his eyes blank and open the whole time, lashes barely twitching when James slips his tongue in.

“What's the matter?” James asks, tilting Sirius' chin up and rubbing at a streak of blood dried onto his cheekbone. “Sirius? You're alright now, you know. I'm here, you're with me. Whatever it is, whatever you've done, it's all going to be alright.”

Without warning, Sirius cracks – shoves him, laughs, shoves him again, on his feet and slamming James into the wall with skeleton-rattling force.

“ _You're_ here?” he sneers, getting right in James' face. “You? So fucking _what,_ James? How exactly is it supposed to _benefit_ me that you're fucking _here_ when you won't even listen to a word I have to say?”

“Listen?” James says, disbelieving. “ _'Listen'?_ Honestly – chance would be a fine fucking thing. I've asked you ten times at least what's going on. _”_

Sirius really does look mental, all bloodstains and bared teeth, smiling like a fucking shark. “You really want to know, do you?”

“Yes, Padfoot.” James rolls his eyes. “I _really_ want to know.”

“You were wrong,” says Sirius, with obvious relish. “About Lupin. And about me, not that it matters, but – ”

“Hang on,” James interrupts. “Slow down, back to the part where I was wrong. When was I 'wrong', exactly, and what _exactly_ was I supposedly 'wrong' _about_?”

Sirius steps back, releasing him, shaking his head and looking disgusted.

“I knew you'd be like this. You want a time and a date and a blow-by-blow recap? Wednesday night, at the cottage. After you and dear old Moony had your little private chat. Ringing any bells yet?”

“Well, no,” says James. “I mean, obviously. You know full well I don't remember that night.”

“No, but– ” Sirius looks thrown, inexplicably surprised. “You should've only...”

“Only _what?_ ”

“Never mind, it's not important. The point is, I tried to tell you and you didn't want to know.”

“Tell me _what_?” James demands, at the end of his tether. A thought occurs, and he draws his wand. “No, actually, you know what? Just fucking _show_ me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius all but shoves the memory down his throat. There's this crackling surge inside James' head, like he's the one whose skull is being invaded all over again even though the boot is, theoretically, on the other foot. Pressure, like there's going to be a storm, and then an image rushing towards him, swallowing the world.

They're fighting, or at least they're trying to. There's a lot of flailing and cursing and rolling around, to no apparent effect. James is positive that _normally,_ when they fight, it looks a hell of a lot cooler than _this._

Technically, he appears to be losing. Sirius is on top of him, at any rate. Laughing down into the other James' face, apparently oblivious to the obvious fact that James is _not_ in the mood.

“Get off me,” James says angrily. “I mean it, Sirius.”

“What's your problem?”

“You are.”

Sirius tosses his hair back, drunk as fuck and scowling.“I haven't even _done_ anything.”

“Yes, you fucking have. You know _exactly_ what you've done.”

“What, not come running when you snapped your fucking fingers?”

“Shut up,” James says. “You know it's not about that.”

“Oh, really? Because – ”

“I know where you slept last week.”

Sirius freezes. “What? _How?_ How could you -”

“Had a little chat with Remus.”

“Listen,” Sirius says, suddenly terribly earnest. “It's not what you think. Remus.... whatever he said, J, you can't trust him.”

“Funny, that's what he said about you.”

Sirius rolls off him, visibly stricken. “And you believe him?”

“I never said that,” James says. “I'm just saying, why would he lie about that?”

“Because he's a fucking death eater, alright? Or at least, he's working for them. _”_

There's this moment of silence, and then James stands up, shaking his head like he's disappointed.

“That's not even funny, mate.”

“It wasn't _supposed_ to be,” Sirius says. “I mean it, James– ”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I fucking _do._ Listen to me, I know you don't want to hear this, alright? But – ”

“Too fucking right I don't,” James snaps. “You can't just go around calling people _death eaters,_ Sirius. Just because you're _pissed off,_ I mean... Jesus Christ, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

“I can't believe this.”

James summons a bottle of rum. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“F--”

“Yeah, yeah,” James interrupts, waving the bottle dismissively. “Fuck you too, mate. Fuck you too.”

He turns away, stumbling over his own feet, and heads for the stairs. He stops abruptly, two steps up, turning his head to glare back at Sirius.

“No,” he says sharply, and in response to nothing. “It's drunk, I'm late, and I can't fucking deal with you right now. I'm going to bed. Are you coming or not?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The memory fades and he tries to pull out, but Sirius isn't finished. James sees a darkened street, a huddle of unfamiliar faces, men with clubs and crowbars and nasty looking knives, and Sirius at the front with fucking John, stopping, head turned sharply as a howl rips through the sudden silence and –

Chaos. Shouting, slashing, screaming panic all around – _“fight them!”_ Sirius is bellowing, wand moving too fast to watch as the werewolves close in. _“They're just fucking animals. Fight back, you fucking cowards – fight back!”_

Some of them listen. Some of them fight. Not enough, and not for long. Everywhere he looks men are dropping their crude, useless weapons, dropping like flies, mouths and stomachs and throats all gaping and open and red red red –

Someone is calling _“Sid? Sid? Sid?”,_ grabbing Sirius' arm and dragging him down to the pavement, so bloody and deranged that even Sirius takes a second to recognize John, clawing at the hand clamped over his mouth.

“ _Find him,”_ John hisses. _“Find Sid, find him, get him out of here –”_

He sees the rest in glimpses, bursts of rage and death and violence. And then Sid, his arm mangled and his back against the wall of an alley, face to face with a fucking werewolf. James feels the chill, the rush of horror, feels Sirius' mind register the distance, the speed he can move at, the speed a _werewolf_ can move at, and then go blank.

Somehow, nothing happens. Everyone just holds their positions, both Sirius and the – unusually tattered, scrawny looking – wolf seemingly frozen to the spot. Sid is pale as a ghost but somehow still talking, chattering away at the wolf as he clutches at this chunk of rock around his neck, holding it out as far as the chain will go like he's showing off a prized possession to a curious stranger.

“ _See, it's from my house. It protects me, you know? From magic. And I'm pretty sure you're magic, you see, so you won't be able to....you know, eat me. If that's what you do, I mean, I don't know. Sorry if that's rude? My dad never said there'd be werewolves...”_

The wolf growls, low and dangerous, and Sirius snaps out of it. James can't tell what happens next – how Sirius gets himself between Sid and the wolf, how it is that the damn thing doesn't kill them both when Sirius aims his wand and nothing happens, nothing at all, like his magic's just snuffed itself out. All he sees is Sirius staring at the wolf, the flare of recognition in his eyes, and James feels it too – it's familiar, somehow – and then it's turning away, loping off the down the alley to rejoin its pack.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Shit,” says James, leaning back against the wall. “That was heavy, mate, are you alright? You got Sid out of there, didn't you?”

“Of course I did.”

“What happened to the rest of them? His dad?”

Sirius shrugs. “He's still in one piece.”

“More than he deserves,” says James. “Taking a _child_ on his fucking suicide mission, nearly getting you _killed_...”

“Sid's fourteen, and he wanted to go. He snuck out, followed us. John didn't know he was there until it was too late to send him back. And it's not like we _knew_ there were going to be werewolves...”

“And you?” James asks, suddenly suspicious. “How long did _you_ know he was there?”

“Can we get back to the fucking _point,_ please?”

“What point?” James says. “What was any of that supposed to prove? Except that you're completely mental, which I already– ”

“Lupin.” Sirius spits the name like its poison. “I was right, and you were wrong, and now he's out there killing people.”

“Come on – ”

“ _You_ come on,” Sirius shouts. “It was _him,_ you fucking _know_ it was.”

“It was a werewolf, Sirius. Furry, big teeth, mad eyes – they all look pretty much the same.”

“We ran around with him every fucking month for fucking _years,_ and you're telling me you don't _recognize_ him? You're telling me _I_ don't? You think I don't know what I fucking saw?”

“It was a stressful situation,” James says, placating. “And you've been paranoid about Moony for months, one way or another. It's no wonder you'd think– ”

“I wasn't fucking _paranoid,_ I was fucking _right._ ”

“Yeah, so you say...” James stops, sighing at the expression on Sirius' face. “Listen, mate, I'm not saying you're _wrong – ”_

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not. Honestly. I'm just... it's all a bit much, you know? He's one of our best mates, Sirius, we've known him since we were _kids._ I mean, for fuck's sake, it's _Moony,_ he's hardly capable of– ”

“You don't fucking _know_ that. You don't know what anyone is _capable_ _of.”_

“I know my fucking _friends._ ”

Sirius snorts. “Just not by sight, apparently.”

“Oh, sod off. Yes, alright, it could have been him. _Could_ have. I don't know, and neither do you, unless there's something you're not telling me...” James pauses, mulls it over with a swig of wine. “Is there? Something else? I mean, you seemed pretty sure back there at the cottage, and that was before. If you've got some kind of _proof –_ ”

“Proof?” Sirius scoffs. “Besides what you've seen? Besides what you already know? Besides the fact that he tried to turn you against me – and did a pretty good job of it too, didn't he? I don't suppose you asked _him_ for fucking _proof_ before jumping to conclusions – ”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” James says, temper fraying fast. “Turn me against you? Bit hypocritical, don't you think? If he'd even _implied_ anything half as fucked up as what you're saying about him – ”

“What do you think he was trying to tell you? What the fuck do you think he was getting at when he said you shouldn't trust me?”

“How should I know? That you're a slag, presumably. Or just, you know... completely insane. I thought he was just sore about getting dumped, but if you went from shagging him to calling him a death eater in the space of a fucking week, I can't say I blame him for being a bit.... what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Shagging him?”

“Yeah. What?”

“Merlin's fucking _balls,_ James. Do you have any idea what's actually going on? I mean any clue _at all?_ I thought you'd just got his side of it, but you don't even– ”

“Fuck you,” says James. “Why don't you tell me then, if I'm so fucking clueless? Come on, oh all knowing expert on everything. What do _you_ think he was trying to say?”

Sirius laughs, still looking at him like he's grown an extra head.

“He wants you to think that I'm fraternizing with the enemy. I thought you _did_ until...”

“Wait,” says James. “Hang on, sorry, _fraternizing?”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's not sure how they end up in bed. Sirius is in a very distracting mood, kissing him breathless and stripping their clothes off, rolling them over until James is on top, and making no fucking secret at all of what he wants, what it is he's _asking_ for.

“I can't believe you thought I was...” Sirius laughs, a low, pleased huff of breath as James' nails drag over his hipbone. “With _Remus.”_

He keeps doing that – laughing, smiling, being _happy._ Honestly, he seems so relieved by the apparent revelation that James doesn't think he's sleeping with the enemy that it's borderline offensive.

“You were jealous of _Remus.”_

James pinches him, scowling. “No, I wasn't.”

“You were,” says Sirius. “That's why you've been– such a dick.”

“Unlike you, you mean?”

“I'm...” Sirius' lashes flutter and his breathing quickens as James pushes his legs apart, nails digging into the pale, thin skin of his upper thighs. “I'm always a dick,” he tries again. “Part of my charm. James...”

“Yeah? You want something?”

“Shut up,” Sirius says hoarsely, arching up against him. “You know what I want.”

He's flushed and hard and James has hardly touched him. Yet. Hardly even started. It's so fucking difficult to think, but James' mind won't quite shut up, won't quite just let him forget.

“Yeah, well, I want answers.”

Sirius groans. “What _answers?”_

“This... _fraternizing_ shit,” says James, trying to focus. “I mean, why would you think that, Pads? Why the fuck would you think that _I'd_ ever think that?”

“Because Remus – ”

“No,” says James. “No, because Remus never said that. You think I'd have stood there and let him, even if he wanted to? The only one talking about that stuff is you.”

“Well, I'm not any more, am I? So why don't we just forget about it?”

James hesitates, his eyes drifting shut of their own accord when Sirius' long, clever fingers curl around his prick. He can't remember why this seemed to matter – why anything ought to matter right now except Sirius' hands, and the smell of his hair, and his lips parting to smile against James'...

“Um?” calls Peter, with a fussy little knock at the door. “James?”

“Fuck off, Wormtail,” Sirius yells.

“James? Are – are you in there?”

“ _Jesus,_ ” he mutters, exchanging a look with Sirius. “Yes, Wormtail, I'm perfectly fine. Now can you please fuck off?”

“Um, okay?” says Peter. “But – sorry, can you...? Are you going to be _long_ in there?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They fall asleep in Peter's crappy bed, and when they wake up they fuck again, languid and slow and hungover. They leave through the window to avoid an awkward breakfast with Wormtail, and recuperate with bacon butties and plenty of tea and – in Sirius' case – about twenty million cigarettes.

“Hair of the dog?” says Sirius, pausing outside their local on the way home.

James snorts, holding the door for him. “You think you're so _funny.”_

They don't leave until closing, and James finds he doesn't fancy going home. He's having a good time. Sirius is having a good time. The whole city seems to be having a good time tonight – the whole fucking city feels as wide awake as James does. Everything feels sharp and bright, alive with possibility.

“So,” he says, kissing Sirius under a smashed up streetlamp. “Where to next?”

It's all snapshots, after that. Moving pictures flickering past; once they swallow those pills, the night moves too fast to remember. James doesn't care – he's hurtling from moment to golden spotlit moment, on top of the world every second of the way.

He's dancing, drinking, buzzing, elated, hauling Sirius into the toilets of some trashy club and the bass is pounding through the walls, and he can feel it through his shoes, he can feel it in the tips of his fingers as they slide into Sirius' red open mouth –

He's singing his heart out, serenading the river with a rousing rendition of _'we are the champions';_ legs dangling over Waterloo Bridge, champagne frothing everywhere and Sirius' arm draped heavily around his shoulders. The moon peeps out from a veil of cloud, and suddenly he's somewhere else. Running down the Old Kent Road in nothing but his socks, with those funny muggle sirens wailing behind him, red-blue-red-blue light flashing on wet concrete as he reaches for Sirius' hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's happy. They're happy. For hours, for _days,_ they're so stupidly fucking happy that James forgets what it's like to feel anything else.

That's the thing, isn't it? When things are good, when Sirius lets them be good, it's like they've _always_ been good and they always fucking _will_ be. They'll always be just like this – this free, this close, this hot for one another. Wrestling in the shower and shagging on the kitchen table; utterly trashed at eight in the morning, hanging out the window to swear at the pigeons; eating breakfast in the bath after midnight. Squabbling over late-night radio stations and waltzing 'round the roof to the buzz of distant traffic and the hum of Sirius' voice in his ear. Kissing 'til his lips are sore. Talking in the dark. Going out and staying in, rope-marks circling Sirius' wrists – he shivers every time James puts his mouth to them, moans at the rasp of his tongue over reddened skin as if just the reminder is enough to get him going. Empty bottles everywhere and a couple hundred galleons' worth of full ones, too, and they match each other drink for drink, dare for dare, and they get the damn bike flying; soaring up towards the stars, faster than even his Nimbus can take him. Crash-landing in a field, laughing up at the wide, dark sky that spat them out, breathless and bruised and blaming one another, too busy touching to care where they are. And Sirius looks him in the eyes and smiles that sunburst smile, and it's happily ever after, just like he wanted. Forever and ever, for the rest of their days.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day they go back to work, James wakes up at five am to an empty bed and a loop of still-knotted rope dangling uselessly from the ornate metal headboard.

If he hadn't drunk so much the night before, he'd probably have seen this coming. If he weren't half hungover and half still pissed, his stomach wouldn't drop and his heart wouldn't stall mid-beat, panic hijacking his brain for no damn reason; _not again, not again –_

Sirius is only on the roof, of course. James would've worked that out straight away if the bastard hadn't been so prone to disappearing recently. Even as is, he feels like a bit of an idiot when he blunders out into the street and the bracing cold air slaps him sober just as Sirius calls _“oi, James, up here”_ and drops a shoe on his fucking head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You realize that could've seriously _hurt_ me?”

Sirius shrugs, barely glancing up when James nudges a knee into his back.

“If you were slow enough to get hit.”

James spreads his cloak out and sits behind Sirius, wrapping himself around him. Sirius is frosty cold but real and restless and solid against him, and James can't speak for a moment, can't do anything except press his forehead to Sirius' shoulder-blade and _breathe_.

“You alright, there, Prongs?”

“Mm,” says James. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.” Sirius sighs as he leans back, accepting James' hold. “Weird dreams.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It's quiet for a bit, and James lifts his head to watch over Sirius' shoulder as he blows smoke rings up at the stars. The moon is a perfect white circle, a hole cut out of the near-black sky. He thinks about work, about the world outside the two of them. It all seems so pointless, so small and mundane and far away.

“I was back in that alley,” Sirius says, a little too casually. “From the other night, you know?”

James does, although they're going to need a better shorthand. _Werewolf Bloodbath_ , maybe. _That Time You Almost Got Yourself Killed._ Doesn't really narrow it down, now that he comes to think about it.

“It was the same,” says Sirius. “I could hear them dying round the corner. Screaming like a bunch of fucking useless babies...” he trails off, spits, disgusted.

“Sirius...”

“What was I supposed to do? Half the wizards lost their fucking heads, the muggles didn't stand a chance. It's not like I could save them all just because I was the only one there with the basic common sense to ignore the no fucking _wands_ rule...”

“Seriously?” James says. “No wands rule? Fucking... _seriously?”_

“Yeah, I know. I told him it was mental. It's one thing to fight alongside the muggles, you know? Let them know what's out there, help the ones that have the guts to help themselves... it's good. I still think it's good. But all this other shit? Anti-magic amulets, for fuck's sake. No fucking wands. And I never thought they'd listen – it's not like he even _checked –_ I mean, who would be that fucking _stupid?”_

“I don't know,” James says, truthfully. He can't even get his head around it. He'd assumed they were all muggles. There were at least twenty – how many of them _chose_ to go in wandless, _powerless_ , helpless as lambs to the slaughter?

“Anyway.” Sirius flicks his half-smoked cigarette over the edge of the roof and sparks up another. “This dream. Like I said, it was all exactly the same, except Sid wasn't Sid. I mean, he _looked_ like Sid, at least at first, but in the dream I knew he was someone else.”

“Regulus?”

“No, not him,” says Sirius. “You.”

“Me?” James is a bit offended by the implied comparison. “You know I'm not a _child,_ right? I hardly need you to _protect_ me.”

“Maybe not,” Sirius says, annoyingly sceptical. “But in the dream you were. Not a child, I suppose; you were about fifteen. I was, too, I just didn't notice at first. And you were talking to Moony – to the wolf, alright – in some made up language I couldn't understand, and we weren't there any more, we were in the tunnel. The one to the Shack. And then... I don't know. We didn't _swap,_ but I was you, and you were me. And it was – the wolf – it had its teeth in me, and I was... and you looked at me, and you said 'what did you expect?' And then you turned around and walked away. _”_

James is stung. “I wouldn't do that.”

“I know,” says Sirius. “You weren't really you, it was more like... it was like I was doing that to you.”

Mollified, James presses in closer, burying his nose in Sirius' hair. “You'd never.”

“No, I know. It was just a stupid dream. I just...”

“You're just wound up about the other night,” James finishes for him. “The Werewolf Bloodbath. Who can blame you, mate?”

Sirius lights up another fag. “We're not calling it that.”

“Alright,” says James. “Listen, though. It wasn't your fault.”

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “I know. I don't need you to...”

“Who, me?” James kisses his ear, slipping his hands under the hem of his t-shirt. “I'm not doing anything.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They're already at least two minutes late when Sirius stops in the lobby, grabbing James' arm and pulling him behind a pillar.

“Look, James, you won't tell them, will you?”

James snorts. “Why, are you ashamed of me?”

“Like you wouldn't _believe_ ,” says Sirius. “I'm just saying, alright? It's none of their business. I don't want you going round bragging about the fact that I let you – ”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” James says, rolling his eyes. “As if I would, honestly. Now can we get a move on? Pembleton will have my guts for garters...”

Privately, he's pretty sure that everyone is going to know, no matter what he says or doesn't say. The specifics might be their little secret, but their fellow trainees aren't _stupid._ They are, in fact, the third, fourth, and fifth most qualified candidates for a job which Pembleton insists is _“eighty per cent observation”._ Which is obviously bollocks, but nevertheless – James would bet his life that Robbins, at least, is going to straight-up _ask_ them who's on top before they've even hung their cloaks up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

James is wrong, as it turns out.

About the others, and about Pembleton, who doesn't say a word about their tardiness. About other things, as well. Hard to credit though it is, it turns out that James is wrong about quite a lot of stuff.

Like, for example, Sirius.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been so long, jesus. thanks so much to anyone reading this, esp those lovely humans who left such kind & supportive comments on the last chapter. hopefully the next one shouldn't take so long, but if anyone wants to hmu and help me procrastinate i'm tumblr user @inveracities ♥


	16. Chapter 16

 

It doesn't hit him all at once, how wrong he's been. How fucking oblivious. It's not as if he walks into class that Wednesday and just surrenders all his certainty at the first sign of trouble. He's been told that he's stubborn, and maybe he is, because it takes him three whole days to get to the point where he's ready to say it out loud, to Sirius' face; _“I was wrong about you.”_

He tries to put it all in order, later on. Make a sort of timeline, as if he's working a complicated case – when did he find out _x_ , when did he realize he was wrong about _y_. He doesn't write it down, of course, just moves the pieces around in his head, and tries to string together a story that isn't about how _stupid_ he's been.

 

 

* * *

 

A less observant person might argue that the presence of an unknown and grim looking Ministry Official at Pembleton's side is the first real clue that something's amiss. But James is a trained Auror, and so he knows, even at the time, that Mr Internal Affairs is actually the _second_ sign of trouble.

The first sign of trouble is the silence.

He's expecting a commotion; gossip, questions, innuendo. Every head turned towards them, everyone excited that the boys are back in town. So, they walk in all breezy and casual and very slightly late, and nobody speaks. At all. No even seems to breathe. And they all look at one another and no one looks at _him,_ and James does _know._ Not the details, of course, but he definitely knows that he's missing something.

 _Then_ the rest of it happens. After. That's important – chronology is very important. _After_ James has already independently worked out that something's going on, Internal Affairs clears his throat and shifts in a way that draws James' attention to the holstered wand and the telltale grey of the cloak that conceals it.

“Sirius Black? Internal Affairs.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Internal Affairs looks unimpressed. “I trust you know why I'm here?”

“I don't,” James says. Everyone ignores him.

“I can guess,” says Sirius. “But you're making a mistake.”

Internal Affairs seems to shrug without moving a muscle.

“I assure you, our investigation will be thorough and unbiased. Now, if you'll come with me?”

Sirius looks at Pembleton expectantly. “Sir?”

“The more you co-operate, the sooner we can sort this out,” says Pembleton, then sighs when Sirius opens his mouth again. “Listen, Black, just do as he says.”

And despite James' protests, Sirius just _does_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Pembleton assigns them a massive stack of tests, and retreats to his office without so much as acknowledging James' litany of urgent, angry questions. As soon as his door shuts, everyone starts talking.

“Can you _believe?”_

“What do you think– ”

“They should–”

“Listen, ladies– ”

“ _I_ think– ”

“ –Azkaban.”

“Bobby, _no– ”_

All at once, all at top volume, all completely and unacceptably fucking opaque. So James asks what the fuck is going on, and Meadowes gives him this half-worried, half-suspicious sort of look.

“You really don't know?”

“Don't you read the paper?” Robbins chimes in, disbelieving. “You must have seen it, come on.”

“Seen _what?_ ”

 

 

* * *

 

**PUBLIC SERVANT, PRIVATE PERVERT?**

EXCLUSIVE: HOTSHOT AUROR IN SICK HOTEL SEX ROMP WITH THE BRIDE OF DEATH (AND OTHERS)

There's a picture. Two pictures, side by side, with the promise of more shocking images on pages 2-6.

_FAMILY AFFAIR; Bellatrix Lestrange (left) greets Auror cousin, Sirius Black (right) as he enters her suite at the Ritz._

The kiss is blurred, indistinct. Bellatrix is obvious enough, clad in black lace lingerie and heavy silver jewellery, emerald snake-eyes winking from her wrists as she winds herself around a similarly beautiful, similarly dark haired boy. But he could be anyone, really. There's no real _proof_ , except –

_Aftermath; Sirius Black leaves his cousin's hotel room with an entourage of dark creatures (not pictured)._

Sirius is dishevelled, half-naked, stumbling out into the corridor with so little grace that James can almost believe the whole thing is a case of mistaken identity. Until, that is, Sirius glances back over his shoulder, staring straight into the camera for a long slow second like he can feel it watching him somehow. Like he knows that James can see him. Like he knew all along that this was going to happen someday.

 

 

* * *

 

The article itself is a steaming pile of bullshit. Riddled with inaccuracies, as Bones keeps insisting to anyone who'll listen. For starters, Sirius is consistently referred to as a fully-fledged Auror, a _“_ Ministry whiz-kid” _,_ and generally the sort of person who might spill “top secret information” _._ As if he even _has_ any.

“He couldn't tell her anything,” James snaps, the first time Robbins goes too far. “Any more than _you_ could. He's a fucking disaster alright but call him a traitor again and I'll –”

As for the rest, the “twisted sex games” and “unspeakable acts of depravity” witnessed by a “trusted source”, well...

“What does that even _mean_? I mean really. Trusted source? That could mean literally _anything_.”

“Rita Skeeter must have a good reason to believe them,” says Robbins. “And there are twenty people who say they heard screaming. Look, it says right here, under the bit about the werewolves–”

“ _Rita Skeeter,”_ James scoffs loudly, none too keen for a recap of paragraph three. “Who the fuck is _Rita Skeeter_?”

“She, er...wrote the article, Potter.”

“Yeah, I _know_ that, _thanks_ Bones _._ I'm just saying – ”

“She's really brave,” says Robbins heatedly. “They could _kill_ her for writing this, you know.”

“And the Ministry, too,” says Meadowes. “They won't be happy– ”

“Jesus, s _orry,”_ James says. _“_ I didn't realize she was your _wife._ I'm just fucking _saying,_ what does that prove? So there was screaming, yeah? So what? Bellatrix _loves_ to scream.”

 

 

* * *

 

So, yeah. It's bullshit. All speculation and innuendo and “sources close to the family” taking the opportunity to air their favourite grievances. Every youthful indiscretion, every fucked up thing Sirius has ever done – not just detailed but embellished, twisted, turned into a made-up scandal all of its own.

“ _He always had a dark side, even at Hogwarts,”_ some anonymous coward is quoted as saying. _“He liked to hurt people, he – he thinks it's funny to hurt other people. Everyone was scared of him, even his friends. One time he tried to kill a boy, and the school just covered it up...”_

(“That's just Snape,” James tells the others impatiently. “He's just this greasy cunt who went to school with us, it's got nothing to do with any of this.”)

Bellatrix, with her “heinous crimes” and “tawdry girl-on-girl escapades” in the Slytherin common room, gets a hell of a lot of page time devoted to her looks for someone whose role in the story is, theoretically, Evil Terrorist. She's a “poisonous beauty”, a “darkly seductive temptress” and “rumoured half-succubus” who “preys on innocent blondes”, and is described by one anonymous source as _“like Jezebel on coke, you know?”_

(“Listen,” James says, interrupting Robbins. “I _know_ Bellatrix Black, alright? She tried to kill me with her shoe at a family wedding. No, that's not the point, I'm just _saying._ She's awful, but she's not like _that._ She hates sex, I'm sure she does – she hates all normal _men._ ”

“I thought Sirius hated girls,” says Robbins, and James is so thrown by the first name thing that he just lets her finish. “We can all be wrong about the people we fancy.”

“I don't – ” James begins, then experiences his one and only moment of distraction from the mess Sirius has made of their lives. “Wait, hang on, I thought you fancied _me?”_ )

 

 

* * *

_  
_

 

It's total shit, in short. And James has memorized every fucking word of it by lunchtime.

 

 

* * *

 

“Alright, Potter,” says Pembleton at last, beckoning him into the office. “I'll give you five minutes.”

James lets the door slam shut behind him.

“What the fuck, sir? What the hell is going on?”

“I don't know,” says Pembleton, wrecking James' last scrap of solid ground like it doesn't even _matter._ “But I have every confidence that this will be resolved in a fair and timely manner.”

“No, you don't,” says James. “No offence, but you're full of – ”

Pembleton looks at him.

“Sorry, sir. I'm just saying – ”

“I know what you're saying,” says Pembleton. “Black will be fine, trust me.”

“But he -”

“Yes, I'm well aware. I've been aware for some time, as a matter of fact.”

“What”

“The Prophet doesn't mention that its 'news' is two weeks old now.”

Two weeks – so they were fighting, then. He was looking for Sirius, and Sirius was...

 _'I know where you slept last week,'_ he remembers saying. And Remus, Remus saying, _'you should ask him – '_

Pembleton is still talking.

“Black reported the incident at the time. Along with some moderately useful intelligence...”

“What?” says James, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say. “What _intelligence_?”

“That's none of your business,” Pembleton says curtly. “All you need to know is that it was passed on to the appropriate authorities, and that they were satisfied with Black's explanation of the incident. As was I.”

And it should be reassuring, maybe, but it's not. What it is, is proof of the unthinkable – Pembleton knows more about Sirius' comings and goings than _James_ does. Pembleton, who is nothing but a glorified _teacher_ , somehow found himself the recipient of Sirius' fucking _trust._

It also raises a lot more questions than it answers.

“Are you saying he was... what, _spying_? For the Ministry?”

“No.”

“But–” James starts. This makes no _sense._ “Then why–?”

“Mistakes were made,” says Pembleton, meaninglessly. “Not least by Black.”

James snorts. “You don't fucking say.”

“Watch your tone, Potter.”

It's pretty clear that Pembleton's heart isn't in really in it; he doesn't even raise his voice, and he pretends not to notice when James rolls his eyes. He looks almost sympathetic. It's the _worst._

“Black will be fine,” he says again, like he thinks James finds that remotely convincing. “Now, I suggest you leave this matter to the experts and commit yourself to your studies. In case you've forgotten, you're still on probation.”

“No, sir,” James says, halfway to the door already. “I've not forgotten anything.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's not sure why he tells the others. It's not as if they're _helpful._ But they're interested, they listen, so he tells them all he knows. And they pore over the details of his talk with Pembleton as if it's all some fascinating case-study. As if there'll be a _test_.

“If they knew all along, then why are they only acting now?”

“That's obvious, isn't it? It wasn't splashed all over the Prophet at the time.”

“Yeah, but why did the _Prophet_ wait? They must've sat on the story for, what, two weeks?”

“Who's to say they sat on it?” James cuts in. “They might not have known. It's all this 'trusted source', isn't it? Skeeter never says she was there herself. And look at the pictures, they're hardly professional quality...”

Robbins scoffs. “What, you think some random member of the public just happened to stumble into a death eater orgy and went, 'oh wow, that's Ministry whiz-kid Sirius Black, thank the lord I thought to bring my _camera'?”_

“No, he's right – I mean, not a total random, obviously, but some kind of private investigator? Or someone with a grudge against Black, maybe?”

“Perhaps he's got a stalker.”

“Other than Potter, you mean?”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Robbins. No one thinks you're funny.”

“Leave her alone,” Meadowes says sharply. “We're trying to help, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“Speak for yourself, Meds. I could care less about helping that trait-”

“Shut _up,_ Bobby.” Meadows steps between them. “Potter, put that wand away before I shove it up your arse.”

So yeah, they're not exactly helpful, but it's better than just talking to himself. He doesn't know that at the time, but it's clear enough later; less than an hour after he goes home alone to an empty flat, it hits him that he's going to go _quite_ mad if he talks to himself much longer.

 

 

* * *

 

He's given up on counting the signs of trouble by that point, but he's still aware that it doesn't exactly bode well when Sirius calls him on the floo at one in the fucking morning.

“Listen, James – ”

“Alright, Padfoot?” James' voice sounds weird; too loud, too _jolly._ “Nice digs.”

“I don't have long, so – ”

“Not a patch on the Ritz, though, I suppose. VIP suite and everything, wasn't it? Only the best for the Noble and Most Ancient – ”

“James, shut _up,_ just stop being a _bitch_ and just _– ”_

“Charming,” James says. “Do you kiss your mum with that mouth? Or is it just cousins? I've never been sure where your lot draws the line.”

“Listen, just _listen_ to me – it's not what you think, alright?”

“You don't know what I think.”

Sirius leans in closer to the fire. “James, I was there as a spy _._ ”

“No, you weren't.”

“Are you calling me a _liar?”_

“Yes,” says James. “Well spotted.”

Sirius looks thrown by that, betrayed, as if James' blind fucking trust in him is some kind of _birthright._ Like he's legally entitled to lie to James' face and not get called a liar _._

“I fucking _was._ I swear _,_ alright? I was there for information. I was spying on them, on _her –_ ”

“What, for the Ministry? Nice try, mate, but I talked to Pembleton.”

“You did?” says Sirius, flames dancing in his eager dark eyes. “What did he say? Is he going to get me out of here?”

“No,” James tells him, taking a certain hollow pleasure in it. “Your precious fucking _boyfriend_ isn't going to save you. Leave it to the experts, that's what he said. That, and you _weren't_ there on official fucking business. The only straight answer he gave me was when I asked if you were spying for the Ministry.”

Sirius looks exhausted, bitter, disappointed. Not remotely _sorry_.

“Okay, no, not for the Ministry. Not exactly. But...” he stops, looking sharply over his shoulder. “Shit, I have to go. But James, you have to believe me– ”

“Nah,” says James. “I don't have to do _anything_.”

 

 

* * *

 

He doesn't have to, but he still calls his parents when Sirius doesn't come home the next day.

Because he doesn't want this stupid Internal Affairs shit dragged through the slow, pointless “proper channels” when a word from his dad could sort it all out in less than an hour.

Because he's just that decent, and he believes in justice and truth and all that, and Sirius doesn't deserve to be in a stupid fucking holding cell where James can't even shout at him.

Because, as he explains to his mum, Sirius isn't really _guilty_ of anything, besides literally sleeping with the enemy and destroying James' ability to trust anyone in any way ever again in his _life._ And, well – he lowers his voice to a whisper–

“At this point, I'm not even sure I trust the _Ministry._ To handle it properly, I mean... _”_

His mum sighs. “James...”

“I know,” he says, “I know, I know.”

He doesn't mean to snap at her, but of course he fucking _knows._ He's practically _part_ of the Ministry; he's going to work for the fucking Ministry for the rest of his working life. He quite fancies a go at the top job, someday, and getting himself sucked into this shit storm just to spare Sirius a day or so in a perfectly comfortable room at HQ is, in many ways, a really fucking stupid idea. He knows that. That is, in fact, just one of the many reasons he's so pissed off about all this. Just one of the maybe _innumerable_ ways in which Sirius has totally _fucked_ it. Really, well and truly fucked their whole fucking _lives,_ by being a stupid fucking cousin-fucking _slag_ who couldn't keep it in his fucking pants just because they had a stupid fucking fight that week and James just happened to hurt his fucking stupid _feelings._

“I know, darling,” his mum says soothingly. “You've said. It's all very stressful, I know, but could you try to keep your voice down? Your dad's not feeling very well.”

“Sorry, but– ”

“And you mustn't say 'slag', James. It's a foul word, very judgemental.”

“I _am_ judging him, though,” James points out. _“Everyone_ is judging him, it's not just... no _,_ look, mum,” he holds his hands up before she can start. “I'm sorry, alright? I'd never call a _girl_ that. It's just fucking... sorry, it's just _Sirius,_ mum, he drives me _mental._ And we were – things were _great_ , and now he's gone and fucked it all up and I don't know what to _do._ ”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, like he's five years old and fallen off his broom again. “Move back a bit, I'll be right over.”

 

 

* * *

 

His mum gives him a hug, gently instructs him to take a shower, and then somehow produces a fucking omelette out of nowhere. Despite the fact that there's nothing in his kitchen but champagne, dodgy leftovers, and maybe some unwashed pants.

“I'll just clean up a bit, shall I?” she says, smiling at him when he mumbles _“thanks mum”_ with his mouth full. Properly smiling, as if she's somehow, against all odds, still _proud_ of him even now she's seen how he actually lives his so-called adult life.

James feels a bit like crying. It's a really nice omelette, as well. He tries to remember the last time he called her. He was on the floo every Sunday, back when he was with Lily. His mum _adored_ Lily. So did his dad, for that matter, and his grandmother, too – she even left her one of those creepy little porcelain cherubs in the will, and what's more, Lily _kept_ it. In a box, out of sight, but still. Lily was so nice. _He_ was nice as well, back then. He called his mum, and ate real food, and he only got blackout drunk at the weekends.

“That's Sirius', by the way,” he says, waving at teabag mountain. “The mess, I mean. The _literal_ mess, not...”

“Yes, love,” says his mum, as in _you are full of shit, son._ “Now, let's have a cup of tea and decide what we're going to do about all that.”

 

 

* * *

 

What they're going to do about it turns out to be sweet fuck all. Wait and see, focus on work, trust in the fucking _process._ Don't rely on special treatment – as if he does, as if he ever _has._ As if he's ever even brought _up_ the fact that his father paid for their fucking training facility. As if he needs to be _told_ not to swan around like some fucking _Malfoy_ or something.

“Your dad can't wave his wand and make it all go away,” she tells him, adding insult to injury. “You do know that, don't you?”

“ _Yes,_ mum, I'm not _six._ I'm not talking about magic _,_ am I? I'm talking about, you know, _influence._ All those galas you go to, all that charity bullshit- ”

“ _James_.”

“Yeah, fine, sorry mum. I'm sure it's really important and everything. I'm just saying, what's the point of being rich if you can't even _do_ anything?”

“I didn't say I couldn't do anything,” she says. “I'll drop in on Sirius later, once we've got you off to work. I'm sure he's allowed an advocate if they plan to take things any further.”

“I can get _myself_ to work,” James mutters, mostly to himself. Then, “What do you mean, take things further? Mum? How far do you think they're going to take it?”

 

 

* * *

 

When she hugs him goodbye, she tells him not to worry. So, obviously, he does nothing but worry all fucking day. What else can he do? No one says that unless something terrible is going to happen. No one in the whole of human history has ever told another person not to worry when there's nothing to worry _about_.

“Black will be fine,” is all he gets out of Pembleton. Which, again, why would anyone _say_ that? What kind of monster tells someone who's _obviously_ worried that anyone or anything is going to be _fine?_

It's hardly surprising, all things considered, that he spends the whole day expecting the worst. That his guts are in knots and he pukes up his lunch, heart doing the death-rattle, stuttering away in his stomach as he chokes on his own sour spit and the walls crowd in and he can't fucking _breathe._

Don't worry. Do nothing. It's all he can hear. Don't worry. Do nothing.

Wait and see.

Is it any wonder he's a bit of a fucking _mess?_

 

 

* * *

 

The Prophet says there's an investigation underway.

The Prophet says there's going to be a tribunal, and a spokesperson for the Ministry is at pains to point out that Sirius Black is nothing but a trainee, while totally failing to mention that this means he hasn't – that he _couldn't_ have _–_ done anything to warrant all this hysterical talk about _treason._ A point which the Prophet also ignores in its rush to speculate about what it would mean for pureblood society if a whole generation of the Black family wound up in fucking Azkaban.

“As if,” scoffs Robbins. “When was the last time one of _them_ had to deal with an actual _consequence_?”

James snaps out of an elaborate jail-break plan for long enough to glare at her.

“He's _not_ one of them, though. They fucking disowned him. Or he disowned them. Either way, he lost his inheritance, and–”

“Wow. Tragic.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. You need any help with that chip on your shoulder? I'm just saying, his parents wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire.”

“I suppose that's why they're doing this,” Bones says thoughtfully. “The Ministry, I mean. He's got the name, but not the connections. No one's really going to kick up a fuss if they make him a scapegoat for the entire family...”

“Shut up, Bones.”

“No one's going to kick up a _fuss?_ ” says Robbins. “You've met _Potter_ , right?”

“Hey – ”

“Potter isn't doing anything, though.”

James feels the nausea rising again. “Fuck you, I'm –”

“He doesn't need to, does he?” Robbins says derisively. “Mummy and Daddy will sort it all out over brunch with the Minister – ”

“I'm standing _right here,”_ James explodes. _“_ I can fucking _hear_ you, you know, and for the record, I've never called _anyone '_ Daddy'. And also for the record, my parents have nothing to do with this.”

 

 

* * *

 

He gets home – still worried _sick,_ for the record – and pointlessly checks his post. He pointlessly heats up some pointless soup that he can't be arsed to even eat, and paces pointlessly around the empty flat drinking pointless fucking champagne.

_Don't worry. Do nothing. Black will be fine._

He works on the prison break plan for a bit. His patronus charges around the bedroom, chasing imaginary Dementors through the labyrinth of clutter. He wonders if it's possible to become Minister for Magic while technically being a fugitive who was forced by circumstances entirely outside of his control to break his mostly-innocent lover out of Azkaban.

_Do nothing. Don't worry. Wait and wait and wait and see._

He drinks more. He worries. He wonders what his dad will say when he finds out his only son and heir is living in a cave on the run from the law, probably eating rats and not even shaving his face and all because Sirius just _had_ to make trouble –

“James, darling?” his mum calls from the front room. “We're back.”

 

 

* * *

 

“So,” says James.

“Yeah,” says Sirius. He looks _awful._ “So...”

“You're back.”

Sirius shrugs. “Looks like.”

“Great,” James says flatly.

“They've kicked me out,” says Sirius. “Of training, that is. Not the holding cell, I left that voluntarily.”

“You've been expelled?”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” says James. “That's just great.”

 

 

* * *

 

“Why don't we all sit down?” his mum says briskly, breaking the silence. “I'll rustle up something to eat...”

James was _not_ expecting this. Not any of it, really, but especially not the part where his mum wants to stay for fucking dinner when all _he_ wants is to tell Sirius in detail and at great length what a massive fucking _cunt_ he is, and maybe punch him in the face.

She sweeps on into the kitchen, leaving them with no real choice but to follow.

“You must be famished, Sirius,” she says. “Honestly, the _standards_ in that place... I'll have to have a word. Now, where are those duck eggs we picked up?”

“I'll do it, Euphemia,” says Sirius, like he's a perfect little _angel,_ all of a sudden. “You sit down, put your feet up. Can I get you some wine?”

James is going to kill him.

“Well, aren't you the gentleman these days?” says his mum, positively _beaming_ at Sirius. “Make it a large one, will you? Cornelius is a decent enough man, I know, but he does like to _waffle,_ doesn't he? And he will insist on sitting so very _close.._.”

“He's a creep, alright,” Sirius agrees, still using his _nice normal person_ voice, pouring her a hefty glass of something pink and sparkly. “Fancies you something chronic, as well. Lucky for me, I suppose.”

“Who the fuck is Cornelius?” James wants to know.

“Fudge, dear. He deals with a lot of these little public relations problems. Some people think he'll make Minister one day, although I have to say I doubt it. Still, who knows?” She looks up, smiling again. “Sirius, darling, do you have a cigarette?”

Sirius offers her the packet, and lights one up for her with an annoying little flourish. James is going to straight up fucking _murder_ him, just as soon as his mother leaves. James is going to blow the whole fucking flat up.

“That's better,” she says, exhaling with a satisfied sigh. “Don't tell your dad, Jamie.”

“Don't call me _Jamie.”_

She and Sirius exchange a look, like _he's_ the fucking problem here.

“What?” he says, through gritted teeth.

“James...”

“What? Am I killing the _mood?_ Am I harshing your _buzz,_ mum? What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

Sirius scowls. “Don't talk to your mother like that.”

James sort of loses it a bit.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me? Is this a _joke?_ Do you hear yourself, do you _see_ how you're behaving right now?”

“How _I'm_ behaving?”

“Yes, _you!_ You, Sirius, Disgraced Former Auror of fucking Sex Romp Fame, last seen fraternizing with the enemy on the front page of the Daily fucking _Prophet.”_

“James,” his mum says sharply.

“James _what?_ What? I mean, seriously, does everyone but me have selective amnesia? What the ever-loving fuck is going _on_ here?”

“A word, please,” she says, standing up and stubbing out her cigarette. “In private.”

 

 

* * *

 

She's cold when she's properly angry, thin-lipped and upright, head tilted up like she's royalty. More like Sirius than him, he thinks. He feels weirdly betrayed by the line of her jaw, the straightness of her shoulders. She says she's disappointed, and he feels betrayed by that as well.

She tells him that Sirius made a mistake, as if it could happen to anyone.

She tells him that Sirius was fucking _misled._

She tells him that she's going to explain.

 

 

* * *

 

She tells him a long, boring story full of irrelevant details.

Sirius met with a Ministry official, maybe Cornelius, maybe not, maybe on the seventeenth on April. Maybe the sixteenth, she can't quite remember...

(James is going to _scream.)_

That same Ministry official told Sirius that his little brother was officially a death eater, and Sirius told that Ministry official that he didn't give a fuck (reading between the lines), because he was done with his whole rotten family.

“But they encouraged him not to sever those ties,” she says, all clipped and disapproving. “They seemed to believe that they might prove useful.”

Which they sort of did, apparently.

Sirius had several meetings with “poor young Regulus” from Spring through to September, when Sirius decided (for reasons his mum won't go into) to call a halt to the whole charade. Having gathered some useful intelligence but failed in his other (inferred, unofficial) mission to convert Regulus from murderous fascist to protected Ministry informant, Sirius threw in the towel and told “Mr Pembleton” to pass on the message to top brass.

“So you're saying he gave up on his duty as well as his brother?”

(That's the first time he really thinks it – _I was wrong. I was wrong about you._

But Sirius isn't there to say it to, and so the moment passes.)

His mum thinks that's a bit harsh. His mum thinks he should talk to Sirius about that. Never mind that he _would_ , if she'd hurry up and leave.

“Anyway, the Ministry weren't best pleased,” she carries on. “They urged him to continue, or to meet with other members of his family instead. I suppose that like you, they felt it was his duty. If Mr Pembleton hadn't intervened...”

“Oh, so _that's_ why he loves him so much,” James says bitterly. “You should see him, mum, the way he acts...”

His mum thinks that Sirius' crush on Pembleton is rather beside the point. She thinks it's more important to remember that this was the context in which Sirius made his little “mistake”. That Sirius must have felt a lot of pressure; that he really must have thought he was doing the right thing.

“Like hell,” says James. “No, listen, mum. You don't know him like I do. Seriously, trust me, he did it out of _spite._ ”

 

 

* * *

 

Sirius leans against the kitchen door-frame, a bottle of wine in one hand and an unlit fag in the other, bored and moody like he's posing for a photograph. They're alone at last, and he's dropped the maddening good boy act; James watched him change as his mum stepped into the fireplace, watched that fake smile slither off his face as soon as she waved goodbye. Now he just looks like he's resigned himself to tuning out and putting up with some kind of tedious lecture; some interminable, meaningless bollocking he doesn't give a shit about.

He waves a hand, gesturing airily with his cigarette like he's giving James _permission._

“Go on, then. Let's have it.”

James doesn't want to shout at him any more. He doesn't want to tell him off; he's not a bloody teacher. He wants to get right under Sirius' perfect skin. He wants to fucking _hurt_ him.

“You know, it's funny,” he says conversationally. “I always thought you were terrible at acting. Well... at acting like a _person,_ anyway. More fool me, eh?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

James sits down on the sofa, stretching his legs out, taking his time.

“You've got them all convinced, haven't you, Black?”

He summons the wine out of Sirius' hand, watching Sirius' fingers snatch at thin air, just a second too late.

“Pembleton, the others, even my mum now...” he pauses, takes a swig, salutes with the bottle. “And I've got to hand it to you, mate, she's not easy to lie to, my mother.”

Sirius takes an angry step forward, fists clenched, mangling his forgotten cigarette. “I haven't lied to her,” he snaps. “I haven't lied at _all._ ”

James snorts. “Nice one. You're hilarious. You _are_ a fucking lie.”

It's pretty effective; Sirius stops dead in his tracks, pale and wide eyed, forgetting to pose.

“What the fuck?” he says quietly. “James, do you think I – that I'm –”

“What?” says James. “A lying piece of shit? Yes. Could you _try_ to keep up, here? I'm getting sick of repeating myself.”

“Do you think I'm a traitor?”

James almost laughs. “Of course you'd think that,” he says. “Poor, tortured Sirius, always so tragically _misunderstood.”_

He watches Sirius' face change, the narrowed eyes and the curl of his lip, the anger and the sense of fucking _injury._ That wounded-but-hiding-it-but-how- _could-_ you expression that only goes to prove James' point _._

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too, mate. Get another catchphrase. And no, for the record, I don't think you're a fucking _traitor.”_

“Then what the fuck is this about, James? Why are you _being_ like this? You're acting like I fucking betrayed you.”

James stands up, dimly aware that he's dropping the wine. He does want to shout again now. He wants to shout himself hoarse and smash up the room, smash up the world, smash up Sirius' fucking face.

“Why?” he says. “You're asking me _why?”_

“I thought your mum explained it all,” says Sirius, moving in closer. “You think I lied about that shit with the Ministry? I can prove it, you know. You can read my fucking mind. Or there's a pensieve in Pembleton's office, if that's not good enough. Or you can ask your mum for a bit of the veritaserum she gave me when your precious fucking _Ministry_ said I was _lying–_ ”

James finds his wand in his hand, his fist clenched in the collar of Sirius' robes. Time pulls tight like a tensed muscle as Sirius' lips part and his pupils dilate and power swells in James' veins. He can feel Sirius' heartbeat. He wants to hit him more than he's ever wanted anything else in his life.

“Do it,” Sirius whispers. “Go on, I won't stop you.”

James tries to breathe. To remember that he _has_ to breathe. “I know.”

“So – ”

“You're not even sorry,” James says. “You don't even know what you've done.”

Sirius swallows hard, blinking like he's trying to wake up.

“I know what I've done, Prongs, I just don't know what I've done to _you.”_

“Don't call me that,” says James, shoving him away. “You think that bullshit explanation means a fucking thing to me? All your bloody secret meetings, your secret double life – that's supposed to make me feel _better?”_

“James – ”

“All that means is you've been lying to me for even longer than I thought. Day in, day out, for months and fucking months. About _everything,_ Sirius. Fucking hell, all those times we talked about wishing we could _do_ something! And all along – ”

“I couldn't tell you.”

“Fuck you, don't give me that! Don't you _dare._ Like you'd never break the fucking _rules_? Never tell someone something you weren't supposed to tell?”

Sirius grabs his arm. “Listen– ”

“No.” James shakes him off, shoves him again. “You didn't _want_ to tell me. You liked your little secret, liked feeling like you were more _important_ than me– ”

Sirius sneers. “Is that what this about?”

“Of course it fucking isn't,” James shouts, advancing on him. “It's got nothing to with anything, has it? None of this does. Because you might've fooled my mum, yeah, but you sure as fuck don't fool _me._ You didn't run off and fuck your cousin because of any so-called _pressure_ from the _Ministry_.”

Sirius lets himself be pushed this time, falling back against the wall without resistance. James pins him there, forearm jammed up under his throat.

“Did you, Sirius? Tell the fucking truth for once.”

Angry grey eyes flutter shut, and Sirius' teeth tug at his lip. He breathes out hard through his nose. “Alright, no,” he says. “You're right. I didn't.”

“Right,” says James, lowering his voice and pressing in closer. “So why don't we start again then, yeah? Why don't you fucking _explain_ yourself?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is a minor detail that no one cares about, but i like to imagine that a select few hotels have secret wizard-only floors that muggles can't access, hence bella at the ritz. more importantly, thanks for the lovely comments. still on tumblr [@inveracities](http://inveracities.tumblr.com/) if you wanna hmu


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is.... not the nicest chapter?? i feel like bellatrix should be her own warning, but there are more specifics in the end notes. anyway, thanks for comments/kudos as always & i'm sorry about this one.
> 
> ps. with love and thanks to @jackiemoreno for the idea of bella & sirius dueling as kids ♥

 

Sirius sighs.

“You know legilimency doesn't solve every single human problem, right?”

“Solves more of them than talking does. At least where you're concerned.”

“I just don't see how this is going to help.”

“I don't care,” says James. “Unless you've got something better than 'it just happened', I'm going to need to see it for myself.”

“You'll just get more pissed off with me.”

“Not possible.”

“You say that – ”

“Yeah, well, it's a chance I'm willing to take.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius' mind is a fucking mess.

There's none of that furious purpose and clarity that forced James to look where directed the last time he was in here. Either Sirius is _trying_ to confuse him by thinking in every direction at once, or he just plain doesn't know what he wants to show him.

Faces flicker in and out of the darkness. Regulus, Remus, Bellatrix. James James James James –

He has to focus. Take control.

 _Bellatrix,_ he thinks firmly. _Back to the start._

 

+

 

He sees a pair of dark haired children, circling one another in a dimly lit ballroom. Despite the obvious age difference and the even more obvious fact that he knows exactly who they are, they're so alike in expression and bone structure that he almost mistakes them for siblings. Gleeful, vicious, uncannily intent – they look like tiny demons.

They're duelling like they know what they're doing, though Sirius is certainly too young for the wand he's wielding to be his own, and neither of them look old enough to be using spells like _that._

A chandelier shatters high overhead, and Sirius laughs as it rains diamonds and glass and every glittering shard reflects the flash of red from Bella's wand. And suddenly he _feels_ it, the memory of pain so vivid and bright and all-consuming that it remakes the world, and he screams –

 

+

 

Rattled, James pulls back a bit, tries to get some distance. He sees Sirius, nine years old or maybe ten, lying in a patch of long grass and hissing _“crucio!”_ with increasing impatience as he jabs at a worm with the tip of his wand. The worm seems unperturbed, but an absurdly small Regulus keeps going _“Sirius, don't”_ in this agitated, irritating way until Sirius snaps and threatens to make him eat it.

“I'm telling,” says Regulus, already running away.

“I'm _telling,_ ” Sirius mimics, high pitched and girly. “Off you go then, run to Mummy. Maybe next time I'll practice on _you._ ”

He doesn't know where Bellatrix even came from, but there she is all the same, taller and more glamorous than any fourteen year old has any right to be.

“Now, now, Sirius,” she says, mock-stern and patronizing. “What have I told you about empty threats?”

Sirius scowls. “Who says it's empty?”

“You've never once managed it, have you? Not even on a worm.” Bellatrix laughs, and tosses her hair back. “On your feet,” she commands. “Quickly now. I'll show you.”

 

+

 

James speeds up, pushing forward. He skims through memories of Bellatrix dancing, duelling, screaming bloody murder. Sirius at eleven, twelve – starting to wake up, learning to hate her. Still watching for her face at every family gathering, still tensing with anticipation at the sight of that emerald-eyed snake winking from her wrist as she goes for her wand.

Fifteen, cornered in the wine cellar, turning his head when she tries to kiss him. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

“I knew it,” she says, her eyes narrowed and her fingers savage as she grabs him by the crotch. “I knew you couldn't perform for a woman.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Sirius snarls, shoving her away. “It's not me, Bellatrix, it really is _you.”_

Bellatrix just laughs at him. “I'm as close as you'll get, little cousin. You'll never want another woman more than you want me.”

“Listen, you deluded old harpy – ”

She moves to slap him, and he catches her wrist. Her skin is as cold as her silver bracelet. He squeezes, tight enough to bruise her bones, but for once in her life, she doesn't make a sound.

He's gone too deep – he can taste the rich red wine staining Sirius' tongue, can smell it mingling with dust and oak and the heady onslaught of Bellatrix's perfume as he pulls her closer. He feels her lips against his, the flare of hatred lighting up that hollow space inside him. He feels the slither of delicate silver scales against his skin as her bracelet twists and comes alive, fangs sinking needle-sharp into the back of his hand.

She sneers as he sinks to the floor.

“You didn't _really_ think I'd want a pathetic little _boy_?”

“Fuck you – ”

“You're such a disappointment,” she says. “You could have been something special. You're throwing it all away, and for what? To play second fiddle to a coddled liberal brat with half your talent, in the vain hope that he might deign to bugger you one day.”

 _Half your talent?_ James thinks indignantly, outrage bringing him back to himself. He watches Sirius aiming unsteadily, catching Bellatrix in the back with a Cruciatus that makes her stumble and clutch at the door-frame, manicured talons scrabbling at wood as she gasps for breath. She steadies herself, and smiles at him over her shoulder, eyes bright and weirdly triumphant, looking almost proud.

“I knew you could do it,” she says. “Maybe there's hope for you yet.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

James has had enough.

“This isn't helping.”

“I told you,” Sirius says, rubbing his temples and wincing. “I did say.”

“Stop wallowing in your weird fucked up childhood for five minutes and -”

“I'm not _wallowing,_ ” snaps Sirius. “I'm not doing _anything._ Do you think I _want_ you sticking your nose in my family business? Judging me for stuff I did before I even _met_ you? You're the one who fucking went there.”

James scoffs. “It's not my fault you can't organize your own mind. You realize it's fucking _chaos_ in there?”

“No,” says Sirius with totally excessive sarcasm. “I'd never noticed. Thanks ever so much for pointing that out.”

“For fuck's sake, would you fucking _grow up_? Wah, wah, wah, it's so _hard_ to be _me._ Do you know what, mate? You looked like you were having a grand old time from where I was standing. You and that, what was it? ' _Evil bitch'_?”

“She _is_ an evil bitch.”

“Yeah, and your fucking childhood soulmate to boot. Funny how you never mentioned that part. If you thought that was going to make feel _sorry_ for you...”

“I really didn't,” is all Sirius has to say for himself. It's hard to tell if he's upset or just too tired and uninterested to even have this fucking _fight_ properly. He's smoking right down to the filter, grinding the stub into the carpet James' grandmother left them, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on the planet.

He'd _better_ be upset, or James is really going to lose it.

“Look,” James says, adopting his most reasonable voice. “The past is the past, alright? Just forget about all that and show me the fucking _present.”_

“The present is just you laying into me for stuff that happened in the _past_ ,” Sirius says pettily, just to be an arsehole.

“You know what I mean.” James rises above it. “Stick to the last few months, this time. Stick to the relevant facts _._ ”

“I can _tell_ you the relevant facts. You don't have to poke around inside my head if all you want is _facts._ ”

“Then fucking _do_ that! Jesus _wept,_ what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

According to Sirius, the relevant facts are as follows:

  * He ran into Bellatrix in Knockturn Alley, some time ago and entirely by accident.
  * For unrelated reasons, John from the cult was also there.
  * Bellatrix invited Sirius back to her hotel room.
  * Sirius told her that hell would freeze over etcetera, and they had themselves a little fight.
  * She gave him a key that would let him straight up to her floor at the Ritz.
  * John told him to keep it in case it came in handy.
  * Sirius, inexplicably, did as he was told.
  * Some time later, specifically that week when James was suspended and they weren't speaking, Sirius (inexplicably) went to see Bellatrix.
  * “Stuff happened. End of story.”



 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They're going round in circles. Literally, in James' case – he can't stop fucking pacing.

“You don't understand,” says Sirius, yet again. “I was – ”

“ _Spying._ Yeah. I know.”

“James– ”

“For _John,”_ he says bitterly. “For your stupid fucking cult– ”

“It's not a _cult._ ”

“Right,” says James. “Of course that's what you care about.”

“No, just – ”

“It's not enough that you let him tell you what to do,” says James. “You let him whore you out, as well...”

“Fuck you,” says Sirius. “That's just your sick little fantasy. He just wanted me to find out what they've got planned. Where they're going to hit next. That kind of thing. It's not like he asked me to– ”

“Fuck your cousin?”

“I didn't _fuck_ her!”

James picks up a copy of the Prophet and throws it hard at Sirius' face.

“What do you call _that,_ then?”

“A mistake,” says Sirius irritably, like it's just so _arduous_ to have to repeat the same meaningless bullshit James has rejected a hundred million times before.

“That doesn't tell me _anything.”_

Sirius scowls. “Well then, what do you actually want to know?”

James takes a deep breath. It doesn't help at all.

“What actually _happened_ in there,” he says. _“Why_ you made your little _mistake._ And it's no good trying to talk about it, I need you to fucking show me.”

Sirius' head falls back against the wall, and he lights up a cigarette.

“You're obsessed,” he says, sighing on the exhale. “Alright, I'll try, just steady on inside my head. No deeper than – ”

“Fuck you,” James says, really fucking meaning it. “Did I ask for your fucking _terms?”_

For the first time, Sirius looks properly rattled. “James – ”

“No,” he says. “Fuck off. You fucking _owe_ me, Sirius.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing he sees is himself, smirking as he closes the gap between their lips. They're standing outside Remus' cottage, and his mouth is on Sirius', and Sirius is falling –

James falls with him. Into him. _Fuck your fucking depth limit._

 

+

 

He's walking down a lavishly carpeted corridor, his hands trapped behind his back by fingers too strong to be human. They're marching him straight to the place he was already headed, but he struggles anyway, just for the hell of it. He turns his head, sneering over his shoulder at Remus, at _Lupin,_ at the blank-faced traitor he thought was his friend, strolling along a respectful three steps behind his _charming_ new boss like the good little sidekick he always has been. It feels like the kind of thing he ought to care about, the fact that Remus is here, but he really doesn't give a shit. He wonders if he's ever going to give a single shit about anything ever again. It doesn't seem very likely. He can't even remember what giving a shit _feels_ like any more.

The door opens, and that lump Bellatrix married looms up in front of him, staring hollowly at them for several long seconds before turning around without a word and lumbering back into the room. There's a sort of grunt, a sharp rebuke, and then Bella sashays over, all silver and lace and disdain.

“What exactly do you think you're _doing_?” she enquires. “That's my _cousin_ you're manhandling, Greyback. A _pureblood.”_

Greyback tightens his grip on Sirius' wrists. “Blood traitor, isn't he?”

“I shall be the judge of that,” says Bella regally. “Now get out of the corridor, you're lowering the tone of the entire postcode _._ And what in Merlin's name is _that?”_

“Lupin,” says Greyback. “New recruit. Thought you'd want to meet him.”

“ _Meet_ him?” Bellatrix looks disgusted. “Why would I want to _meet_ him? No, don't try to _answer_ me, just get yourselves out of sight. Rodolphus will deal with you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Greyback says resentfully, releasing Sirius with a rough little shove.

“Don't _ma'am_ me, you fucking aberration. Get inside before I skin you alive, and _you –_ ” she snaps her fingers in Lupin's direction. “Get your filthy hands off my cousin's wand.”

Lupin hands it over, and Sirius tries to snatch it from Bellatrix's grasp. He's too slow, though. He doesn't care enough. Part of him hopes that she snaps it in half.

Her hand connects with his face, long cruel ring-studded fingers cracking across his cheekbone. She moves in close, heavy-lidded eyes locked on his as she whispers, _“you shouldn't have taken so long.”_

She kisses him, and he doesn't resist. Their lips fit together - _they_ fit together. As well as they ever did. And it's not desire, but it's something – she makes him feel _something._ Even if it's hatred, even if he wants to strangle her, she kisses him and he almost remembers how it feels to give a fuck, to care about the difference between her and him.

Her fingers twist in his hair, just like James' did – he can still feel the blunt scratch of nails at the back of his neck, still taste the burn of second-hand firewhiskey. How long has it been? An hour? A day? More than that? It feels like less than a minute. He can't remember any time passing at all. He can't think what filled the empty space between now and the moment James said _“we're done”._

 

 

* * *

 

 

James pulls out. Mostly on purpose. Maybe a bit because he's just too angry to focus.

“You went there _right after?”_ he demands. “You turned me down and went to _her_ instead?”

Sirius shakes his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He looks pale, sort of queasy, like he's not coping well with James' (admittedly abrupt) withdrawal from his mind.

“Is that an answer?” James softens his tone, feeling slightly guilty. “Or are you just– ?”

“No, alright?” Sirius says sharply. “It was Friday night. It just felt like. I don't know. I don't _remember_ , James, just fucking leave it. What does it matter what fucking _day_ it was?”

“Don't remember what?”

“That fucking _week,_ you moron. I remember it about as well as _you_ remember books.”

“I remember _books._ What does that even mean? Name any book and I'll give you the gist – _”_

“That's what I'm _saying._ I know the gist, but I don't... I know I went to work and I won a lot of fights and I was on a bus at one point, but fuck knows where or why...”

“Hang on,” says James, who's just thought of something. “If it was Friday, does that mean you came to me right after? Is that why you spent that weekend as a fucking dog? Because you knew I'd _smell_ her on you otherwise?”

Sirius makes a wordless, frustrated sound and rakes a hand through his hair like he's seconds from tearing it out. “No, you fucking _freak– ”_

“Pot, kettle – ”

“I _will_ punch you.”

“ _You'll_ punch _me_? That's fucking rich.”

“Oh, is it?” Sirius spits. “I notice you don't give a fuck about the major fucking _issue_ here.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“Lupin,” says Sirius. “ _Now_ do you believe me? He was there, you saw him yourself – ”

“So were you!” James says, utterly incredulous. “ _You_ were there, that's what we're talking about, not fucking _Remus._ I don't give a fuck what _Remus_ was doing. I'm sure he has his reasons – ”

“Has his _reasons?_ Remus Lupin 'has his reasons', and I get _this_? You've got to be fucking kidding me. You think I don't have my _reasons?_ Or do you just not care?”

“You're unbelievable,” says James. “Not _care_? I do nothing _but,_ mate. I spend half my life trying to get my head around your fucking _reasons._ Why do you think I'm doing this? Why d'you think I'm trying to _understand?”_

“Oh, is that what you're doing?” Sirius sneers.

“Yes, it fucking is, you twat.”

“You just thought you'd, what, stop for a quick shouting break? Before you even got through the _door?_ At this rate you'll be 'trying to understand' me all fucking night.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first time. Although, of all the fucking shit you've pulled on me, I have to say this really takes the biscuit.”

“Why?” says Sirius, like he's forgotten how James feels about that fucking question. “No, don't lose it again, just fucking answer me properly. Why are you taking this so _personally?_ It doesn't even affect you.”

“Doesn't _affect_ me? Are you fucking – ”

“It _doesn't,”_ Sirius insists. “You're acting like I _cheated_ or something, but you _know_ it happened before we...”

“Oh, right, so because we weren't _technically_ together yet, I don't get to have any fucking _feelings?”_

“Technically? Seriously? Is that supposed to be a joke? We weren't anything that week and you know it.”

“We had a _row,_ Sirius. That doesn't give you free reign to fuck every death eater in London and then _hide_ it from me for fucking _weeks_ and expect me to be _happy_ about it.”

Sirius bangs his head against the wall, as if James is just that fucking _annoying_ to him.

“I fucked _one_ death eater,” he says. “And I'm not _proud_ of it, alright?”

“And then you lied to me about it.”

“I didn't _lie,_ I just... look, for most of that time I thought you already _knew._ I thought Remus had told you, I thought we'd already _done_ the bit where you treat me like a fucking criminal. My mistake, of course, you were just being a cunt for no real reason – stupid of me, really, not to have realized sooner.”

“ _I_ was being a cunt? You abandoned me in fucking _Yorkshire_ the first time we had proper _sex.”_

“Because you were being a cunt!”

“I was _not_ being – _”_ James is almost too outraged to even get the words out. “This is _bullshit._ I was really fucking _nice_ to you that _whole day,_ even when you were being completely fucking mental. Oh, and nice job changing the subject– ”

“I wasn't– ”

“Yes, you fucking were. Just like you did at Wormtail's place when you let me think that stuff about fraternizing with the enemy was all a hilarious _misunderstanding.”_

“I...” Sirius pauses, looking down at his feet as they scuff at the carpet. “Yeah, alright. I should have said something. I was just... it was just a relief. That you didn't, you know. Hate me or whatever. That it didn't have to matter after all.”

“Yeah, well,” says James. “It does.”

“Yeah.” Sirius closes his eyes, lighting up another cigarette. “I'm picking up on that.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius' mind is more tangled than ever, and all roads seem to lead right back to James. To this one night, this memory that sucks him in like a fucking black-hole as soon as he takes the plunge.

They're standing outside Remus' cottage, and James' mouth is on his, and he feels like he's going to die. His lungs don't work, his heart, his spine, his fists, his mind – nothing works, _he_ doesn't work. His own magic is trying to kill him, this raw blazing energy ripping through his veins, this desperate restless need trying to claw its way out, to get closer to James.

 

_No –_

 

 

For a second, he's himself again, a separate mind adrift inside Sirius' head and Sirius is fighting him, trying to force him out.

 _No, you fucking don't,_ thinks James, and pushes in deeper.

 

* * *

 

 

He shoves James away.

The world rearranges.

 

 

* * *

 

He's back in the hotel room, watching the werewolves leave.

“Nice company you're keeping,” he observes. “And here I thought the Ritz had a no pets policy.”

“You're precious,” says Bellatrix. “As if any such policy would apply to _me._ I could have a whole _menagerie_ of filthy half-breeds if the notion weren't so utterly repellent. I mean, imagine the _smell._ But if that's what you want, little cousin... _”_

“What? _No._ Of course I don't _want_ that. I never even suggested – I was just being _rude,_ for fuck's sake. What are you _on?_ ”

“Oh, this and that,” she says airily. “I do get _bored_ up here.”

“What, does your precious Master keep you under house arrest?”

Her wand jabs into his throat.

“Silly little boys shouldn't talk about things they don't understand,” she hisses, narrow eyed and venomous. “The Dark Lord would never _confine_ me.”

He should push. For information, for a fight. That's why he came here, isn't it?

He can't be bothered to lie to himself. There isn't any point any more. That's why he came, after all. There's stopped being any point.

“He doesn't like to waste my time with trivialities,” Bellatrix is saying. “You're lucky, really, that you chose such a very _slow_ week – I might have killed you by now if I had anything more interesting to do.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Lucky me.”

“You always were an ungrateful brat,” she says, tapping him on the nose with the tip of her wand like he's a naughty fucking puppy before turning to pour herself another drink. She's not even pissed off any more – she almost sounds nostalgic.

“Drink?” She holds out a glass, and then pauses. “Oh, wait. What am I thinking? _Crucio.”_

 

+

 

His nerves are tingling. He almost feels alive.

“You don't mind the little delay?” says Bellatrix, passing him the glass. “It would be such a _trial_ to have the carpets changed again. Wouldn't it, Rodolphus?”

Rodolphus shrugs. “Just following orders.”

“I _know_ that _,”_ says Bella, exchanging a _can you believe this moron_ look with Sirius. “But you were rather _messy_ about it, weren't you, darling?”

Rodolphus just grunts, but Bellatrix is done with him anyway. Her attention's all for Sirius as he downs his drink in one swallow and reaches for his wand; it's lying right there on the table, and he's sure she's going to stop him, but she doesn't.

She must want the fight. She always does, always has. He sends a curse lashing towards her and remembers being eight years old, bursting into her bedroom with a borrowed wand and setting her hair on fire. She screamed and screamed – all rage, no fear – and chased him through the whole house, and they ran and ran and traded curses left and right and he knew she was properly trying to _kill_ him. He remembers being fifteen and –

She's disarmed him. She's holding his wand, and he didn't even _notice._ He remembers – why does he keep _remembering?_ The world won't stay still. He needs to sit down.

“I knew you'd come,” she says, touching his cheek with the tip of her wand, emeralds sparking in the candlelight. “I could see it in your eyes. You're sick of pretending, aren't you? You're ready to move past that little rebellious phase, and take your rightful place in the world that will be. All you need is a push.”

He laughs – more to express his contempt than because anything is funny.

“And that's where you come in?” he says. “I hate to break it to you, Bella, but I came here because I was bored.”

“Of course you did, darling,” she smiles, sweet as a viper. “We'll just see, won't we?”

 

+

 

“Crucio.”

Red light eats everything, and he finds himself down on his knees. He remembers –

 

+

 

He's gagging, choking, furious with everything. Hard as a fucking nail. James is watching him. Watching this. His mouth is full of cock, and James is –

“ _Do you need an audience or something?”_

James is talking and talking, he won't shut _up,_ and Sirius has heard it all before. How many different ways can James find to say the same fucking thing without sullying his mouth with the words themselves?

_Slut. Whore. Cocksucker._

How many times is he supposed to hear it, to swallow it, to lie back and fucking _take_ it?

James won't even remember this. James never remembers the shit that he actually says, and that never stops him from insisting that Sirius is _“wilfully misunderstanding”_ or, worse, _“putting words in his mouth”._

Sirius remembers every single time. He remembers fucking _verbatim._

He remembers –

“ _Look, Sirius, it's you again.”_

 

+

 

James is laughing, seventeen, forcing a magazine into his hands. He knows what it is with his eyes shut. That fucking _girl,_ that black-haired whore who specializes in looking stuck up while some bloke sticks it to her, usually from behind.

“I told you to stop fucking saying that,” he snarls. “How many times? It's not fucking _funny.”_

“It _is_ funny,” James insists, shoving the magazine into his face. “It's funny because it's true. Look, she looks just like you – ”

She's sucking cock this time. Of course she is. He opens his mouth, but –

 

No.

Wait.

There's someone in his head.

This isn't happening.

This is only a memory, and there's someone –

 

+

 

“What is this?” he says, trying to hold his skull together. “What have you...what the fuck was in that drink?”

Bellatrix strokes his hair. “Just a little something to open your mind.”

“What?”

“It lowers mental barriers. Brings things to the surface, where I can see them. I need to know what you know, my pet. It's really nothing personal.”

“I know a lot of things,” he says, struggling to stay in the moment. “None of them useful to you or your Master. Or to me, for that matter...”

“That's for me to decide,” says Bellatrix, tilting Sirius' chin up until he meets her eyes. “At the very least, you must know why you really came here.”

He snorts, because _yeah, you'd think, but –_

“I don't have a reason,” he says.

_I just ran out of reasons not to._

He tries to stand up, but he's stumbling,

falling –

 

+

 

They're outside Remus' cottage, and his mouth is on James', and he's kissing back like his life depends on it. And James is grinding up against him, pulling his hair, biting deep into his bottom lip. And he was wrong. This isn't dying at all. He's not _afraid_ of dying. This is being unmade, dismantled, _erased._ It's losing himself, forgetting himself. Forgetting there was ever anything to him except this trembling moaning useless _slut_ who exists to please _James,_ to do what _James_ wants, to fall at James' feet and kiss his fucking boots and beg for scraps like a pathetic little bitch.

_No, get out, get out –_

 

+

 

 

He's pushing James away. Attacking – striking back. It's only self-defence but James, of course, is furious. Outraged, self-righteous, up on his fucking high horse.

“One more word and we're done.”

Sirius can translate; he knows an ultimatum when he hears one.

 _It's this or it's nothing,_ that's what James is saying. _It's me or your pride._

Sirius can't speak. He can't stop fucking _laughing._

“I should have known,” says James. “Your whole family is– ”

 

+

 

“Poor baby,” says Bellatrix, patting his cheek. “Is that why you came to me?”

“Get out of my fucking head.”

“After all his promises, all that talk of _brotherhood._ After all you've _sacrificed_ for the smallest scraps of his approval...” she pauses, obviously revelling in her petty schoolgirl meanness. As if he even gives a shit. “After all of that, he's just thrown you away. Cast you aside as if you were nothing, all because you wouldn't _kneel._ ”

He yawns, pointedly. “Are you finished?”

“It was all for his sake, wasn't it? The red and gold, the ridiculous _politics,_ all those funny little speeches at the dinner table. Walburga never could see it, but I knew it was all his influence. You didn't mean a word of it. You were just a child, parroting your beloved Jamie _,_ trying to deny what you really are.”

“And what's that?” he scoffs. “Your mini-me? Dream on, Bellatrix. You don't have the first fucking clue what I _really am.”_

“I know what _Jamie_ thinks you are,” she reminds him, almost sing-song, tilting her head to one side. “Isn't he the one who knows you best of all?”

“Fuck you – ”

She slaps him again.

“You did the right thing,” she says, gazing intensely into his eyes. “We're pure, you and I. Purer than any of them. We weren't made to kneel for men like _that._ ”

He snorts. “Of course not – only for genocidal freaks with delusions of grandeur, right, Bella? That reminds me, meant to ask, did he let you touch his snake yet?”

“Watch your filthy mouth,” she shrieks, all composure gone in an instant, wand moving whip-fast –

“ _Crucio!_ ”

 

+

 

It's not enough; he hardly even feels it.

“You're losing your touch.”

She tries again, but it's feebler than ever.

“Rodolphus,” she calls, snapping her fingers. She raises her voice to an ear-splitting scream. “Rodolphus!”

Her husband appears, and she tries it on him, pursing her lips when he falls to his knees. She turns back to Sirius, frowning.

“It's not me,” she says. “It's _you._ A side effect of the potion? I wonder... it was working before?”

He tries to think. “Mostly? At least enough to feel it...”

Why is he _helping_ her? It must be the potion. Yeah, that's it. The potion.

Why lie? He's not even sure the potion's still working. He just wants her to make a good job of it. What's the point if she's barely going to hurt him?

“Crucio,” she tries again, like the element of surprise is going to fix it. “No? Nothing at all? I really _meant_ it, that time.”

The candles flicker, or maybe it's him. He doesn't feel solid. He just wants to _hurt._ Why won't someone just fucking force it, break the lock, hit him hard enough to make things real again.

“Well, then,” Bellatrix says, brightening up. “We'll just have to try something else.”

 

+

 

He stands when she tells him to, lets her strip him without so much as a token protest. He holds his hands behind his back to let her shackle him more easily. He doesn't know why. The potion, maybe. The memory of standing just like this in front of James, apologizing, humbling himself, bending over backwards to try and make things right.

“Good boy,” she says. “Get on the bed.”

James would hate this. The thought is the closest he's come to a feeling for quite some time now. James will go spare when he finds out. James will –

This is stupid. Pathetic. He wants to smash his stupid fucking brains out.

She takes his sight, “to help you focus”. Then she takes his hearing, too. Just snuffs them out and leaves him waiting in the dim, quiet nothingness – probably trying to build some suspense. Anticipation. Panic.

He appreciates the effort, he supposes.

She cuts him. It stings a bit. She cuts deeper, and he feels it even less. What's happening to him? Did she fry all his nerve endings with an overzealous Cruciatus when he first arrived?

She burns him. He's cold. He was cold before he came here. Numb before he came here. Fire licks at the soles of his feet, the backs of his knees. It's like he's submerged in something deeper and thicker than water. Mummified inside his own skin. It's never been this bad before. Is it the potion?

_You know what it is._

The thought has James' voice, self-satisfied and gloating.

_The part of you that feels is mine. It belongs to me, not to you._

That's mad. That's definitely mad. Perhaps he's just gone properly mad this time, and none of this is even really happening. Perhaps he can't feel it because it's not real.

 

+

 

He's aware that she's doing something to him, to his bones; he's aware that something is breaking. His voice – his voice is breaking. He can hear it like it's coming through the walls; muffled, muted, far away. Sound and sight should be working again – she gave them back as soon as she was finished with his mind. He knew she would; she likes to be seen, does Bellatrix. She likes to be heard.

He's aware that blood is drying on his skin and that it itches, really itches, and it's irritating him. He's irritated. That's a feeling, isn't it? Irritation. The desire to scratch your skin off. That's what you'd call a feeling.

He's aware that he's hard, though he doesn't feel turned on. That's not unusual, though. It's only James who –

 

_No._

 

“Hit me,” he hears himself saying. “Properly, I mean. That usually does it.”

 

+

 

“Well, Rodolphus,” Bellatrix is saying. “It looks like we've finally found a use for those frightful cudgels you call hands.”

“You want me to hit him?”

“ _Yes,_ dear, _do_ keep up,” she says, and turns her attention to Sirius. “Between you and me, he is _utterly_ incapable of thinking for himself. Try to see him as more of an extension of my will than any sort of person. A tool, if you like, or a rather clumsy weapon...”

“Yeah,” he says, a million miles away. “That won't be a problem. I've always seen Rodolphus as a bit of a tool, if I'm being honest.”

Rodolphus cracks his knuckles. “Where do you want me to hit him _first?_ ”

+

He doesn't really _feel_ it, but he staggers from the impact, he sees the darkness rising –

+

 

James is kissing him.

He doesn't know where he is. Physically, yes, but in time? Is this happening now or then? Has it happened at all, is he dreaming again? He remembers every reason why this can never happen. He's fourteen, sixteen, eighteen – James is slapping his arse, grabbing his crotch, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Laughing, joking, and the punchline is always the same. Always unspoken.

I _t's funny 'cause I'm straight._

Stage-whispered innuendo, double-entendre, a hand creeping up his thigh. Playing to the crowd. That's what James does best. Pulling him close for a bet or a dare or just for a laugh, it's all such a _laugh,_ and –

_It's funny 'cause you want it. It's funny 'cause I'd never._

James is kissing his cheek, all sloppy-wet and smashed and falling into his lap, callused fingertips pressed to his lips, and he's hard, he's so _hard,_ and James fucking knows it.

 _Shh,_ whispers James, and he _can't –_

James is climbing into his bed, holding him down and touching his mouth and burning the back of his neck with the slightest press of lips against spine.

“ _Relax -”_

 

+

 

Seventeen.

James is laughing. Kissing him. Taking him apart.

_No –_

 

+

 

He fights.

“I'm not a fucking _queer_.”

James smirks, hands tightening around his wrists. “You are for me.”

And he needs to say something clever, he needs to say something that will prove that he isn't, something that will prevent anyone from ever daring to laugh at him again. And it's not coming out right, it's just “no, no, I'm not, I swear,” and it's so pathetic, so please please please don't hate me. And he's burning all over, and James' knee is between his legs, and he's hard and he can't help it and the humiliation just makes it worse. And James knows, James can feel it, James is saying “is that your wand then is it?” And James is laughing, they're all laughing, and he's going to –

 

_No._

 

 _He's_ James, and he's just an observer, floating on the surface of Sirius' mind. He doesn't have a body but he's cold, all the same. Deathly cold. Time isn't real; he tries to push forward but forward doesn't exist. Nothing exists here, nothing is real, only the cold and the stars.

 

 

* * *

 

 

James pulls out.

“So what?” he says. “You're saying it was _my_ fault?”

“No,” says Sirius. He looks like he's going to be sick. “I'm not saying anything.”

“Because, what, I was _mean_ to you one time at school?”

“No, I – ”

“Because I made you come in your pants when we were _seventeen,_ Sirius, and it's not like I did it on _purpose – ”_

“You realize that makes it worse?” says Sirius. “For me, I mean.”

“So _what?_ ” James shouts. “So you fucked your evil cousin two years later? Do you live in a world where that makes any _sense?”_

“I was fucking unconscious!” Sirius shoves him. “It isn't my fault that you went there. And I'm telling you for the last fucking time, alright, I didn't fucking _fuck_ her.”

“What did you do then?” James is still shouting. Why the fuck not? He's got the right to shout. “Stop dancing 'round the point and fucking _show_ me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius' mind is perfectly blank.

He pushes harder, deeper –

 

He comes to, and he's lying on an enormous bed, and Bellatrix is slapping his face.

“There you are,” she says. “Honestly, Rodolphus, can't you do _anything_ right?”

“He was aggravating me.”

“Well, yes, of _course_ he was. That's what he _does._ But what's the point in doing anything if he's _unconscious?”_

Rodolphus shrugs. “Didn't realize he was so delicate.”

“I'm not fucking – ”

“Shh,” says Bellatrix. “Relax. We'll do it properly this time. I'll be in control.”

“You want to do the thing?” says Rodolphus.

“You don't object, I trust.”

“Whatever you want,” says Rodolphus indifferently. “I get to fuck him, right? When you're finished? I want to give it to him my way. _That'll_ make him squeal, alright.”

“We'll see,” says Bella, aiming her wand at her husband. “First things first. _Imperio.”_

 

+

 

It isn't working. He's not here.

She has Rodolphus kick him and the boot just blurs right through.

Maybe he's a ghost now. Maybe she killed him and he just didn't notice.

James' hands are tight around his wrists. _“Stay.”_

 

There's blood on the carpet. Fingers in his mouth, feeding him something. It's going to help, she says, it's going to wake him up. It tingles on his tongue like stardust. He bites –

“ _Stay.”_

His ears are ringing.

“Do you want him to fuck you, Sirius?”

Normally, he'd say no. Snarl it, shout it, prove it by fucking _him_ until he fucking cries. Whoever _he_ is. It doesn't matter, it has never mattered. And it's never mattered _less._

It doesn't matter what Sirius says. What he does. There's stopped being any reason to do or not do anything. Why not just say yes, for once? He wasn't made for _no, no, no._ He wasn't made for anything good, and now James knows it. Now there's not a single fucker left alive who _doesn't_ know it. So why not get properly fucked up this time? Why not give it up at last? He's finally free; there's no one left to hold the leash. No one left to _limit_ him, no one left to lose.

He can't really shrug with his hands tied like this, but he gives it a go all the same. “I don't care,” he says. “Why not? Just do whatever you like.”

 

+

 

He hears himself laughing, this hoarse, mangled sound that's not fooling anyone. He's goading Rodolphus, telling Bellatrix how little she's missing, how small her husband's cock is, how he can hardly even feel it.

He's lying. It hurts. That stuff she gave him must have worked because even though nothing is any more real, right now he's feeling everything.

It hurts. Everything hurts. It rips and tears when all he wants is to ache, and –

He's going back to James.

Fuck knows why it hits him then, but that's exactly what it does. It hits him so hard he feels something crack.

He's already chosen. He's known from the start.

It doesn't matter what it costs. It never has. How many times has he said it?

“ _Anything you want.”_

It isn't James he's lost, it's –

 

+

 

“Look at you,” says Bellatrix, sipping wine on the chaise longue, watching him over the rim of her goblet. “You take it like a common whore.”

She's right. He can feel himself responding – panting, dripping, pushing back like he wants more. He doesn't, though. It hurts. It's weird. He doesn't like it.

“You look absurd,” she says. “Filthy, trembling, debased. Drooling all over yourself, slack-jawed and weak and insensible just because some _man_ has invaded your body...”

She's right. It's what he's always been afraid of. Craving it, needing it, whether he wants it or not. Knowing for sure that he just came out wrong. They all come out wrong, one way or another.

“Fuck you – ”

Bellatrix smiles. She looks pristine, flawless.

“Not even the right man,” she says, mock-pitying. “What _would_ Jamie say if he could see you now?”

Sirius laughs, and this time he means it, because what would _James_ say? He knows exactly what James would say, what he _will_ say, and maybe this time he'll just say it properly. And he doesn't mean to, but his mind skips and he stumbles and falls, trips forward in time, and –

 

+

 

They're in Remus' bed. It's supposed to be alright, all of that shit happened _days_ ago. They're supposed to good now, they're supposed to be _together_ , but now James knows about Rodolphus. About Bellatrix. James talked to Lupin, sent him away like a fucking dog so that Lupin could say whatever he wanted about him, and fuck knows what kind of story he's spun but it's clear that James buys every fucking word of it.

James won't even look at him. He's rolled him onto his stomach and now he's pressing Sirius' face down into the pillow, rutting against him like he's barely aware that he's fucking a person at all. It's clumsy and incompetent and nothing like he's thought about. Tried not to think about. It's nothing like those stupid, awful dreams. James is drunk and angry-sad and fucking _messy,_ and whether it's the drink or the fact he's not even using spit, or just the disgust he feels for Sirius now, the stupid fucking cunt can't even keep it up.

The worst part is, Sirius can. Even now, even like this, even though he's not turned on. James pulls at his hair and he feels himself twitch against the mattress, hears himself whine through a mouthful of pillowcase.

“This was supposed to be special,” says James, trying again to shove his half-hard cock into Sirius' body. “This was supposed to _matter_. But you had to fuck it all up, didn't you? You had to throw it all away. You let him do this, didn't you? I know, I fucking know you did – ”

He's wanted this for so long. He's tried for so long not to fucking want this. And now it's happening at last, and all he can think is that he wishes that it _wasn't._ And when James finally says the word “ _slut”_ it's slurred and pathetic and inconsequential. And Sirius thought he'd feel vindicated, he thought it would be _sexy,_ but it's just that chill again, that coldness, creeping through his body and –

 

+

 

James frowns at him, worried and pissed and insufferably bewildered.

“Sirius, you're bleeding.”

“Yeah, well, whose fucking fault is that?”

“I didn't mean...” says James, tugging at his own messy hair. “I mean, you know I'd never...?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “I know.”

“This was – ”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I'm really drunk, so – ”

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “This never happened.”

“Right. Yeah. Exactly.”

“Cool,” says Sirius, reaching for his wand. “Okay. Cool. _Obliviate.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

James feels cold when he pulls out. Cold, and sick, and still not quite _believing._

“You made me forget.”

 “You would've forgotten it anyway." Sirius shrugs. "All I did was make sure.”

“The first time I fucked you, you made me forget...”

“I did you a favor.”

Sirius looks like he actually believes that, and that's when James says it, when he lets himself really _accept_ it.

“I was wrong about you.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to – ”

“Shut up.”

Sirius does.

“Give me your wand.”

“What?”

“You fucking heard me.”

He holds out his hand and Sirius shakes his head, reaching into his jacket and laying his wand in James' palm. He looks like he's doing it against his own better judgement, which is kind of a joke, really, because if Sirius had better fucking judgement then they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

“What are you planning to do with it?” Sirius asks, would-be indifferent and avoiding his eyes. “You've got your own if you really want to hex me.”

“Nothing,” James says. “I'm just going to keep it.”

Sirius pales. “Keep it? Are you – for how long?”

“Until you've proved that I can trust you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: boundary violation, slut-shaming, slurs, bad sex, bad consent, casual use of Unforgivables & other violence, mentions of blood, dissociation, unhealthy relationship dynamics all around. oh, and lowkey incest.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, so, everything that could go wrong did go wrong with this chapter & i had to retype bits of it like 3-4 times, so what i'm saying is i literally will go mad if i ever have to look at it again and there may be more errors than usual. anyway! thanks so much for the comments, sorry if i've not replied yet ♥
> 
> (warnings at the end)

 

James walks out.

It's not spur of the moment, not something he finds himself doing in a fit of uncontrollable temper. He chooses to do it. Sirius says his name, annoyed and shocked and disbelieving, and James slams the door in his stupid fucking face.

It feels good. For all of five minutes. It feels like being in control.

He can see why Sirius does it.

Ten minutes later, he walks back in, slamming the front door harder than ever.

He's furious. He feels like shit. He can't even fucking storm out. He can't even have _that._

The problem is that he's not Sirius, and Sirius isn't him. Unlike Sirius, he's a normal human person with a normal human heart that doesn't just turn itself off to spare him the bother of _feeling_. And, unlike him, Sirius can't be left alone for more than thirty seconds without causing some kind of catastrophe.

The problem, as he tells Sirius, is that he can't stand the sight of him, but he _also_ can't let him out of his sight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He spends the weekend in a miserable staring contest with a miserable dog, who alternates between pissing on his most cherished possessions and looking mournful when James rebuffs yet another attempt to lick his face or fetch him stuff he doesn't want or fucking fall asleep on him.

Suffice it to say, it's not much to write home about.

Not least because his parents would probably send him a Howler and tell him to sort his life out. To dump Sirius and move back in with them, or just forgive and forget and let it fucking go _._ As if it's all that simple.  As if it hasn't already occurred to him to try just getting over it.

It's not like he wants to stay angry. It's not like he _enjoys_ it. He feels like an infected wound, and no one would accuse a wound of getting infected on _purpose._ It's his own blood that's being poisoned here, his own body that feels sick all the time, diseased and rotten and _wrong_ inside. It's him who has to _carry_ this. Sirius just gets to sit around and look sad, which probably takes zero fucking effort for a _dog._

 

 

* * *

 

 

“This isn't working,” James says, looking down at his chewed up quidditch boots and feeling that headache settling back in. “Just change back, for fuck's sake. I want a word before I go to work.”

Sirius looks at him sullenly, biting his lip.

“What do you want?”

Just the sight of him makes James ten times angrier.

“I want you to stay here and wait for me,” he snaps. “I want your word, for what little it's worth.”

He's expecting a fight, but he doesn't get one. Sirius just shrugs, like it's nothing more than he expected.

“Anything else?”

“Don't sulk at me, you piece of shit. Say the words. 'I will not leave the flat today, I promise'.”

“I will not leave the flat today I promise,” Sirius echoes tonelessly, as if the words are nothing but stupid nonsense syllables. “Was there anything else, or can I go back to being a dog now?”

“Fuck you,” James says. “Fuck your fucking martyred bullshit. Yes, there _is_ something else, you can clean the place up while you're at it. I'm sick of living in your fucking filth – look what you've done to the carpet. Look at _that._ And where are my cunting work shoes, eh? You _knew_ which ones I was looking for.”

Sirius smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the kind of smile that makes a person want to push him out of the nearest window. Which, incidentally, is not that far away.

“They're on your feet.”

James looks down. They are. He wants to fucking scream.

“I really fucking _hate_ you, do you know that?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He can't really concentrate, but nor can anyone else. Pembleton is absent, “summoned by the Ministry” if Bones is to be believed, and all the others want to do is bombard their bumbling nonentity of a substitute with boring, irrelevant questions about that. Where, why, how long will he be gone? Who gives a _fuck?_

He wonders if Sirius will actually clean the flat. He wonders if Sirius will actually stay.

“It's Black's fault,” Robbins insists. “I bet – ”

James hexes her. Meadowes hexes him. The substitute panics, stuns them both, and then pretends that nothing happened. It's pathetic. James learns nothing. No one learns anything at all that day, except to make sure James can't hear them when they want to badmouth Sirius. Or defend him, in Bones' case, which almost makes James angrier.

Pretty much everything makes him angrier, to be fair. Pretty much everything reminds him of Sirius, and the fact that Sirius should be here. Sirius would eat this substitute alive. The bloke would leave in _tears._ But Sirius had to go and get himself expelled, and now James has to get through two more years of this without him, and then at the end of that? The job itself, the job he's always wanted, and Sirius has fucking spoiled it for him. They were supposed to do this together _,_ they were supposed to be _partners._ They were supposed to be a lot of things. But Sirius had to ruin it, just like he ruins everything. Sirius had to go and steal his memory, mess with his mind _,_ fucking _betray_ him like that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's seething as he walks through the front door, splitting headache alive and fucking kicking. It's time they had this out, time to get this out of his system. He just needs one more good long shout, a proper fight, a few wholehearted apologies and –

Time stops.

The living room is fucking spotless. Sirius is nowhere to be seen.

“James? Just a sec - ”

Time starts again.

It's too late, though. The window's closed. Between one second and the next, James realizes all over again that shouting isn't going to fix this. He shouldn't have to wonder, shouldn't have to worry _._ He should just be able to trust.

Sirius appears in the doorway, wet haired and towel-clad and visibly stoned. Unreasonably fuckable. _Smiling_ at him. God, James hates his fucking guts.

“Hey,” says Sirius, yawning. “What time is it? I think I fell asleep in the bath.”

James just looks at him, folding his arms, letting the silence eat away at Sirius' casual, arrogant, _offensive_ presumption that anything between them is in any way okay.

“So...” Sirius clears his throat, gestures 'round the room. “Not bad, eh? Never realized there was so much space in here. And you should see the bathroom _,_ it's mental –”

“You didn't even do it yourself,” James realizes. “Did you? You just _hired_ someone.”

“Well, yeah,” says Sirius, as if that should have been obvious. “I mean, even if I knew any cleaning spells, you've still got my wand. Why, does it matter?”

James doesn't dignify that with an answer, just lets his face do the talking and walks off into the kitchen without another word. He cracks open a bottle of Ogden's and a packet of those fucked up chili-lime cashew nuts his mum always buys him even though he's never in his life voiced the slightest interest in any kind of fucking nut and only Sirius ever eats them. She probably knows that. She probably buys them for Sirius, seeing as he's her poor little innocent _darling._

He tips a fist full of the damn things into his mouth, chewing away at the dry, gritty mess for a cursory moment before washing it away with so much whiskey that he chokes a bit, coughing and spluttering and of _course_ that's when Sirius decides to fucking _join_ him.

“Alright there?” Sirius enquires, arching an eyebrow. “You need me to...?”

“No,” James says, struggling to breathe and shout and not choke to death on a cashew all at the same time. “I don't need you to _anything._ Just roll me a joint and shut the fuck up.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, muttering _“yes sir”_ under his breath as he complies. He summons the stash, like he can't resist rubbing it in James' face that he can still do wandless magic. He knows full well it goes against the spirit of the whole thing, just like he must have known that paying someone else to clean the flat was _not_ what James was asking of him. It's like he's not even trying _._ He's not even _pretending_ to try.

James catches the spliff, despite a terrible throw from Sirius. Deliberately terrible, no doubt. It's even rolled too tightly. James' throat feels pinched and strained when he inhales, and his headache peaks, spikes, temporarily blinds him.

He has to ask.

“Did you leave the flat today?”

Sirius looks away, insufferably offended. “I told you I wouldn't.”

“Answer the question.”

“No, alright? I didn't leave the fucking flat.”

“Come here,” says James. “I want to check.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty four hours later, Sirius emerges from his room with a strange, determined expression and a strip of studded leather wrapped around his fist.

“Hello,” James says coolly. “What's that, then?”

He already knows, of course – he bought that collar himself, after all. Years ago now. For Padfoot, mind, not Sirius. And he meant is as a _joke._

Obviously.

“Is this what you want?” says Sirius, handing it over. He kneels in front of the sofa like it's only natural, like he's bowed his head and bared his neck and knelt at James' feet so many times that it's almost second nature.

James takes the collar, fingers stiff and mouth dry, eyes fixed on the outline of Sirius' spine – bent and curved for him, exposed for his touch, and the buckle is cold between his fingers.

“Do you know what this means?” he asks Sirius.

Grey eyes meet his own and then disappear in a sweep of long, dark lashes.

“Yeah,” says Sirius. “Anything you want it to.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, James doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know, at first, what the fuck he’s going to _do_ with all this newfound power. It’s not like some old two-sickle collar will let them go back and undo it and try it all again. So yeah, it’s not until later that it all falls into place.

They’re kissing, and he’s got Sirius backed up against the kitchen table, and suddenly it hits him. The rage, the sick, sour twist in his stomach that makes him wish he’d never even _heard_ of Sirius fucking Black, and then the kick, the chaser -- the sudden rush of hope that comes from realizing that he knows just how to make things right.

“Apologize,” he says.

“What?”

He tugs at the collar, one finger hooked under the buckle at the back.

“Apologize to me.”

Sirius lowers his eyes, sad and demure and insultingly _false._

“I’m sorry.”

James tightens his hold on the collar. “You don’t mean that.”

Shrugging one shoulder, still staring at his feet, Sirius takes a strangled breath.

“Well, no, not really,” he concedes, like it’s nothing. “But I can fake it, if you want me to.”

James yanks on the collar, jerking Sirius’ head back.

“I want you to _mean_ it.”

Sirius laughs, choked and breathless. “Good luck with that.”

He tugs harder, stopping Sirius’ breath entirely. He feels his own mouth distort with this savage, mindless fury. He wants to make Sirius scream. He wants to make him break and cry and come in his pants and beg for forgiveness, to wreck him like he’s wrecked their fucking lives.

“You _will_ be sorry,” he promises. “I’ll fucking _make_ you sorry.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's over in about five minutes.

It's not what James planned, not what he _wanted_ – it's just messy, angry fumbling up against the wall, biting and grinding and Sirius' nails scrabbling at James' wrist as he makes this breathless, choked-off sound and comes. Just like that. No screaming, no begging, and sure as fuck no admission of guilt.

James gets him on his knees, grabs him by the back of the collar and uses him hard enough to feel him gag and watch his eyes water. When James is finished with him, Sirius does _look_ pretty fucking wrecked; flushed and trembling and teary eyed, wiping at the mess of spit and come smeared all over his chin with the back of an unsteady hand.

It's not _real,_ though. It's just biology. He's not really crying, not really ashamed – when he looks up at James it's all lust and defiance, like he wants to go again and it won't make any more difference than this did. Like he'll never be sorry, no matter what James does to him.

“Can we go to bed now?”

James kicks him. It's probably wrong to kick someone who's just sucked you off, but there'll be plenty of time to care about that later. Besides, it's not as if he kicks him very hard.

 _“I'm_ going to bed,” he says. “You're sleeping on the floor, remember?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius is still awake when he leaves for work, cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by engine parts and empty crisp packets and telltale beer cans scattered everywhere.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” says James.

Sirius salutes him with a can labelled _Red Stripe._ “Yes, sir.”

James slams the door on his way out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The substitute has them identifying poisons again, deaf to their protests that they covered this in their first month with Pembleton. It’s by far the most boring thing James has ever sat through, including the interminable rules tests. It’s a fucking joke; poison _sounds_ more interesting than rules but it’s literally just sniffing things that don’t smell of anything and rejecting fucking berries. Ten minutes of it is enough to make James want to smash every hateful little vial and splash around in a poisonous cocktail until he passes out.

“I can’t believe this,” the others keep saying. “Where the hell is Pembleton?”

It’s like they can’t even tell that they’re making a boring situation even _more_ boring by complaining about it. The closest to a respite James gets is when he ‘accidentally’ ingests a bit of mild poison and gets to spend a peaceful half hour puking in the toilets.

When he gets back they’re talking about Bellatrix, which makes a welcome change.

“They’re not even looking for her,” says Robbins, outraged. “How many months was she living it up at the fucking Ritz? The Ministry don’t give a shit. They don’t have the first fucking clue where she’s gone now.”

“She’s in the country,” James says, realizing as he speaks that he’s known this for some time. “Not as in England, I mean… she’s in the _Country._ Her family has this place up in Worcestershire? I think? They use it for hunting….”

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think?” says Robbins. “He’s practically one of them…”

“Fuck you, how fucking _dare --”_

“Wand away _,_ Potter,” says the substitute.

He sits down, muttering, “I’ve got nothing to _do_ with--”

“Then why did your mum bail Black out?”

“That’s different,” he says. “That’s _Sirius.”_

Even Bones doesn’t look entirely convinced.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Look at this,” says Meadowes over lunch. “There’s going to be an inquiry.”

And they’re off again, voices sawing through James’ concentration while he’s trying to work out what to _do_ about all this.

“A fucking _inquiry?_ Into _what?”_

“They’re saying he was running an unauthorized spy ring out of this place,” says Meadowes. “Jesus, look, ‘inappropriate relationships’...”

“What the _fuck?”_

“They’re really doing a number on him.”

“He’s in a _cell- ”_

“It’s disgraceful.”

“I can’t _believe -”_

James snaps.

“Can you not?” he says. “Can you really, really, really not _believe_ this is happening? Because you know what, chaps, I fucking _can._ I _can_ believe it. D’you know why? Because it’s been happening for fucking days and all you lot do is bang on and on about how unbe-fucking-lievable it is.”

There’s a moment of silence, the others exchanging these _looks_ like James is some random nutjob off the street who’s run in and started shitting on the canteen floor. Like _you deal with it,_ and _no, you._

“Listen,” he says.

“Did you hear something, Meadowes?” Robbins asks.

Meadowes shrugs, and goes back to reading the paper.

“Seriously? What are you, five? You can’t just _ignore_ me -”

“What about you, Bones? Do you hear anything.”

“Can’t say I do, Robbins.”

“You treacherous horse-faced cunt!” says James. “We’re supposed to be _friends -”_

“No, we’re not,” Bones says calmly. “I’ve tried to be friendly because we do have to work together, but you and I have never been friends.”

“What the -”

“In fact, I find you boorish, aggressive, and rather unpleasant. Furthermore- ”

“Furthermore?” scoffs James, stalling for time while he flounders around in search of a withering comeback. “What kind of Victorian bullshit - ‘furthermore’? Are you the fucking Queen, are you? Yeah, Bones? Are you the Queen of fucking England now, mate? _Furthermore -_ ”

“Furthermore,” says Bones, unabashed, “your indifference to the fate of a thoroughly decent man does you no damn credit, Potter. No damn credit at all.”

He doesn’t even know what to say to that fucking nonsense, so he settles for repeating _“no damn credit”_ in his stupidest, poshest voice, and then turns his back on the lot of them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It gets worse. Of course it does, it’s fucking Wednesday. What else would a Wednesday do except get worse and worse and worse?

The substitute lets them out early, blatantly incapable of handling the fallout from their little lunchtime blow-up. James isn’t even _doing_ anything, but he can’t be arsed to argue when they’re told in furious, quavering tones that _“this is going on your permanent records.”_

He’s glad to be out, that’s the thing. He’s almost looking forward to getting home, all set for an afternoon of drinking and venting and in depth discussion of the others’ worst qualities. If Sirius does that wicked impression of Robbins for him, James really thinks he might forgive him everything.

He picks up snacks and booze on his way back, even going so far as to buy Sirius a Mars bar from the little muggle shop down the road. Pleased with his own thoughtfulness, he feels his mood lift with every step, the scant few fucks he gives about his moron colleagues and their moronic opinions slipping away as he runs up the stairs.

It could have been a good day. It could have been a turning point. It could have been perfect, if only Sirius weren’t such an epic fucking _twat._

Before James can even reach the front door, Sirius throws it open, slams it shut, and barrels down the stairs without so much as looking where he’s fucking going, all but crashing into James and making him drop his shopping bag.

“Oh shit -”

Sirius stops dead, grabbing James by the front of his robes like he thinks he’s going to fall down the stairs. Which James would never fucking do, but he’s too distracted to make that point because Sirius is all dressed up in his muggle clothes, leather jacket zipped to mostly hide his collar, and he’s got that look on his face, the one that means he’s been caught out.

“What are you doing here?” Sirius says. “It’s only two - did something happen?”

“Nothing major,” says James, no longer in the mood to talk about his day. He doesn’t know what he is in the mood for, now, but he’s sure as fuck it’s nothing _good._ He looks Sirius up and down, pointedly adjusts his glasses, and enquires, “Going somewhere?”

Sirius pushes his hair back. “I left you a note…”

“Wow. A note. How _thoughtful_ of you.”

“Fuck you,” says Sirius. “I’m allowed to leave the fucking flat.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“You actually _did,_ but -”

“No one likes a pedant, darling.” James smiles, and Sirius has the sense to look mildly alarmed. “Where are we going, then?”

“We? What, you want to come?”

“Why not?”

“Well…” Sirius touches his collar, catches himself doing it, and tries to act like he was just scratching his neck. “I mean, you _can,”_ he says. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Really?” James says pleasantly. “And why’s that, then?”

“I’m going to see John.”

Somehow it’s worse than if he’d said Bellatrix.

“You’re going to see John.”

“James, look -”

“You’re going to see John.”

“Stop _saying_ that. Look, you’ve read the news - some fucker on the radio just said Pembleton was _grooming_ me, for fuck’s sake.”

If James never hears that name again it’s going to be too fucking soon.

“Seriously?” he says. “You too?”

“As if I’m a fucking _child,”_ says Sirius, warming to his theme. _“_ Some brainless little nancy boy getting nonced up and led astray by my mentor - as if I’d ever _have_ a fucking mentor in the first place. Well, I’ll show them, they’ll fucking see- ”

“Okay,” says James. “I’m going to have to stop you there. As riveting as this whole Pembleton thing is, what the fuck does _John_ have to do with it?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re going to break into the Ministry, free Pembleton, and escape through a _secret tunnel?”_

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“And the first person you thought to ask for help with that was fucking _John?”_

“Well, it is his tunnel,” says Sirius. “Besides, he hates the Ministry, so-”

“So he’s a terrorist. That’s what you’re saying. You’re consorting with a terrorist.”

“Oh, come _on -”_

“Yeah, no, you’re right - I should say consorting with _another_ terrorist.”

“For fuck’s sake -”

“And when you get caught?” says James. “When you’re back in that holding cell and headed for fucking Azkaban, what then? You think I’ll just bail you out again, yeah?”

“I won’t -”

“You will. And I’ll have to fix it. _Again._ So, no -”

“No?”

“No,” says James. “You’re not doing it.”

Sirius stares at him, opens his mouth as if to speak and then snaps it shut again. Then he tries to shove past James, tries to fucking _leave_ without a word, and James has never been so fucking _angry._

He grabs Sirius and they grapple in furious silence, stumbling sideways down a couple of steps before James gets the upper hand. He slams Sirius into the bannister and traps him there, arms braced either side as he gets in his face and says it again. “No.”

Sirius’ eyes darken. “Let me -”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Is that an order, is it?”

“Call it what you like,” says James. “I don’t care. You’re not going to do this. You’re not going to see that cunt John - not now, not _ever_ , do you hear me?”

“You can’t -”

“I can, though. I can do anything I want, remember?”

James unzips Sirius’ jacket, staring him down, daring him to try and resist.

“Unless you’re going back on your word?”

Sirius glares. “Of course not.”

“There we go then,” James says. “No more John. No more mad little outings. No more sneaking off when I’m at work and getting into trouble.”

“But -”

“No. No buts. No fucking _argument._ If that thing around your neck means anything, if _this_ means anything to you at all, you will do as I fucking say for once. You’ll say ‘alright, I promise’, and then you’ll shut your fucking mouth and follow me upstairs. And Sirius? If you so much as _think_ about making a run for it, you and me are over. How’s that for a fucking ultimatum?”

For a long, long moment, Sirius doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes are all pupil and his face is very pale.

The silence thickens around them, until James gives his collar a sharp little tug, prompting, “Well?”

Sirius closes his eyes. “Alright,” he says. “I promise.”

He knows it’s cheap, but James can’t resist sticking the boot in a bit.

“There’s a good boy,” he says. “Now, _heel.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

The flat seems smaller when Sirius shuts the door behind them. James could swear there used to be more windows. More light, more fucking _air._ It’s like a tomb in here.

“Can I change?” says Sirius, shrugging off his jacket.

“Yeah, of course,” says James, only half listening. He’s trying to work out why he feels so bloody uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Listen, Padfoot…”

“What now?”

James doesn’t know. “Nothing,” he says. “You can sleep in the bed tonight. If you want.”

“No, thanks,” says Sirius. “I prefer it on the floor.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

So, yeah, James doesn’t get his turning point.

Work keeps happening. Life keeps happening.

Everything is horrible.

Sirius just lies around the flat all day, smoking and drinking and presumably practising that mutinous, reproachful look in the mirror so that it's ready for James when he walks in the door.

They hardly talk, and when they do James doesn't like the things that seem to come out of his mouth. He feels grubby, tarnished, _mean._ He hates how mean Sirius has made him. It's not as if he _wants_ to be like this.

He finds himself complaining all the time. About the smoke, the drugs, the state of the flat, the hair clogging up the bathroom sink when it would take less than five fucking seconds to get rid of it. About work, about the others, about having to wake up at seven am while Sirius snores on the bedroom floor, using James' fucking shoe as a pillow. About the weather, the war, the fact that Sirius is asleep when he gets home after a long, tedious day at work and there's no fucking milk and nothing to eat and the living room reeks of weed and wet dog and motor oil and _misery_. He didn't even know that misery _had_ a smell until he found himself complaining about it.

“Would it kill you to open a window?” he snaps, and comes home to an arctic fucking tundra.

It's the coldest day of the whole year and Sirius is dangling his bare feet over the bedroom windowsill, blowing smoke rings into the blizzard, as casual as you please.

“Is that better?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Would it kill you to keep the place looking _nice?”_

Sirius raises an eyebrow, scattering ash into the murky bathwater. He has _got_ to be doing this on purpose.

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“How?” says James disbelievingly. “ _How_? Buy a fucking mop or something. Jesus Christ, man, muggles do it every _day._ You're telling me it's too fucking _complicated_ for you?”

Sirius looks at him sideways, lip curled, insolent and spiteful.

“I'd have to leave the flat to buy a mop,” he says, like this counts as scoring a point. “Wouldn't I? _Master?_ ”

James _despises_ him, just then. He could watch him drown and feel nothing but satisfied.

“I never said you couldn't go to the _shops._ I'm not – you know what? Fuck it. Fuck you. Do what you like. Buy a fucking house elf, I don't care. I'm going round to Peter's.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

After that, the flat stays almost oppressively tidy. James doesn't ask for the details, and Sirius doesn't offer any, but whatever he's doing it gets the job done. The problem is that James is so _used_ to the mess that the place looks wrong without it, and the absence of clutter just draws his attention to all the other things that drive him up the fucking wall. Like the colour of the tiles on the bathroom floor, or the way Sirius has taken to wearing that fucking velvet dressing gown his fucking uncle _died_ in and which James has repeatedly told him just to fucking _burn_ already.

“Would it kill you to put some proper clothes on, for fuck's sake? I mean, I get that you're really embracing this whole rock bottom aesthetic, you know? Really going all out on the unemployed lifestyle. That's your _thing_ now, I respect that, but maybe _you_ could respect the fact that I have to fucking _look_ at you?”

The next day, Sirius wears his fanciest dress robes and fucking cologne and ties his hair back in a stupid twatty ponytail.

“Happy?” he says.

James wants to strangle him.

 

 

* * *

 

On and on it goes, and it all boils down to the same bloody thing.

“Would it kill you to make an _effort_?”

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, he knows on some level that Sirius _is_ trying. Sirius cooks for him sometimes, even if it's only ever breakfast foods. He's always there when James back, always willing to let James have a look through his mind to confirm that he's stayed away from all the things, all the _people,_ that James has declared off limits.

Sirius buys him a new pair of quidditch boots; soft supple calfskin, nicer than his old ones, even if they are completely useless. When the fuck is James even going to _wear_ them? But that shouldn't be the point. That shouldn't be the first thing out of his mouth. He knows, he fucking _knows_ that he's acting like a twat. And Sirius doesn't even _tell_ him so, doesn't even argue about it _._ Sirius hardly bothers to argue about anything now, and it makes James so fucking _angry._

The worst times, though, are the ones where he catches himself slipping, relaxing, falling back into comfortable habit. He catches himself laughing, or ruffling Sirius' hair, or leaning in for a kiss, and this fucking rage just rises up and drowns him. Just the thought of forgetting it, of letting it go, makes him hate the world and everything in it, starting with Sirius and ending with himself.

It makes him sick. Which makes no fucking sense, because god knows he's sick of being angry. He's sick of replaying it over and over, sick of looking in the mirror and seeing that incompetent drunken cunt from Sirius' memory staring back from behind his eyes. The one who didn't even realize that Sirius was... whatever the fuck that was. That Sirius wasn't into it.

Fuck.

Fuck, that makes it sound so fucking _bad._

It can't have really been that bad.

James can't _know_ how fucking bad it really was, because he doesn't even know what he was _thinking._ He doesn't even have his own fucking memory to go on. Because Sirius stole it, messed with his mind, fucking _betrayed_ him. And so on. And on and on and on all day, for days, and James is really fucking _sick_ of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Check it out,” says Sirius, one rainy evening. “It's called a television – ”

“Yeah, I know. Lily used to have one. What is it doing in the living room, more to the fucking point? _”_

Sirius' face shuts down. “Fine. If you don't want it – ”

“I never said that.”

“It was kind of implied though, wasn't it?”

James runs a hand through his hair, tugging slightly in a bid to take the pressure off his skull. “You and your _implications,_ honestly. If you'd just learn to listen to the words I'm actually saying instead of flying off the handle about nothing – ”

“Flying off the handle? I'm not even raising my _voice._ ”

“You definitely _are,_ ” James informs him. “Trust me. Maybe it sounds quieter inside your head, but –”

Sirius kicks the coffee table over, sending the television crashing to the floor. James says “oh, come _on”,_ but it doesn't do any good; Sirius just goes to fucking town on the damn thing, kicking and stamping and just really fucking _losing_ it. Smashing up the strange dark screen with total seething silent focus, eyes blank and lips pressed tight together as his boot hammers its way through the glass.

“Sirius...” James feels awkward. Tense, uncertain. “Mate?”

He doesn't get an answer, or any kind of acknowledgement at all, and after a minute or two he decides that it's not worth it.

“I'm going to the shops,” he says. “We're out of milk. Again.”

Sirius ignores him. Something shatters loudly.

“Right then,” James says. “I'll just leave you to it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius seems to feel a bit better for his fit of wanton destruction. Not immediately, but still. When James gets home the next day and casts a quick _reparo_ on the television, Sirius sits at his feet and watches him flick through the channels in search of something cool.

He settles for some lions, and cracks open a bottle of whiskey while Sirius rolls them a nice fat joint with the last of what they’ve got left. The earnest old bloke in the funny hat turns out to be interested not just in lions but big cats of every kind, especially and inexplicably in leopards, which he keeps insisting are cleverer than all the rest combined.

James combs his fingers through Sirius’ hair, and Sirius leans back against his legs and laughs at the leopard fancier with him as if everything is normal.

“Used to think you might be a cat,” James muses, taking a drag on the spliff and then holding it to Sirius’ mouth in silent offering.

Sirius’ breath crackles over his fingertips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you know, like a panther or something.”

Sirius laughs, loud and warm and unexpected. “Really, Prongs? A _panther?”_

“Oi,” James objects, pulling his hair. “It’s not that daft.”

“It _is_ that daft,” says Sirius, tilting his head to make James pull harder. After a moment, he adds, mostly under his breath, “Panthers don’t belong to anyone.”

And all James wants in the whole fucking world is for this to be real, to be permanent. All he wants is to relax into this and to be able to know, to _trust,_ that the second he does it won’t all go to shit again. That Sirius won’t run away or throw himself at someone evil or fucking betray him again.

He feels the poison rising. Spreading. Something has to give soon. Something has to change. James just wants to be _happy,_ to stay happy, is that honestly so much to fucking ask?

 

 

* * *

 

 

That night, he pauses on his way to bed. “Wait.”

“I know, I know,” says Sirius. “I'll sleep on the floor. I'm just – ”

“Yeah, you will, but that's not what I meant. Come here a minute.”

Sirius stands in front of him, his head slightly bowed and his shoulders dipped like he's trying to make himself smaller. He's wearing James' boxers and the same ratty old t-shirt he's had on for days, and he's also wearing a fucking dog collar. It still feels weird not to take the piss about that. It feels weird to be so _into_ that, when things are like this between them.

James hasn't wanted sex for a while, hasn't even thought about it outside of the hot, nasty thrill he gets out of turning Sirius down when he offers.

He's thinking about it now, though, that's for fucking certain.

It must show on James' face, because Sirius' cheeks are reddening and he's radiating that restless, high-strung energy that could almost be mistaken for nervousness. His hair is getting too long at the front, and he needs to shave, and he should really eat a fucking salad or something. He's got this hollowed, haggard look about him, which is kind of hilarious given that he spends his entire life lounging around in his pants and getting high. He smells of stale smoke and peppermint toothpaste, and he looks like total shit by his standards. Which just makes it all the more annoying that by anyone _else's_ standards he still looks like a bloody supermodel.

“I hate you,” James says, very nearly tender. “You're so fucking _pretty.”_

Sirius doesn't speak, though he doesn't exactly seem pleased by the compliment.

“I swear you get prettier the more I want to punch you.”

“You can,” says Sirius, meeting his eyes. “You know you can.”

James runs his thumb over rough black leather, pressing the collar into Sirius' skin. “It won't change anything.”

“It might make you feel better.”

He hooks a finger under the collar, feeling his temper rise again.

“It might make _you_ feel better, you mean.”

He feels Sirius' pulse skip and stammer, feels him trying to swallow. He's expecting another bullshit denial, of course, but Sirius just shrugs and lowers his eyes.

“That, too.”

“You want me to do it. You want me to beat the shit out of you.”

“Yes,” says Sirius. “Are you going to?”

James' heart is in his throat. His blood is buzzing.

“Ask me,” he says, tugging at the collar. “On your knees, go on. Fucking beg me for it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Hit me.”_

James can still hear it ringing in his head as he closes his fist and does it again.

“ _Hit me. Please. I want you to.”_

The sharp smack of impact goes directly to his cock. Sirius’ cheek is reddening fast from that first backhanded slap, and he’ll have a black eye soon enough. James wants to go further, to mark him all over, to push him past his limit. To wipe out the memory of every other fist, every other blow, every other person who’s done this.

“Don't – ” Sirius falls against the wall. “Don't hold back, just – ”

“Shut up.”

Sirius' nose is bleeding. Something crunches against James' knuckles. Something cracks. He can't seem to stop. Sirius just stands there and _takes it._

He punches him again, and Sirius leans in for more, fingers clutching at James' robes, dark eyed and openly desperate. Again, again. It feels so _good._ James can't stop. He doesn’t _want_ to stop _–_

 

 

* * *

 

 

He makes himself late the next morning, lingering to heal up Sirius' face and feel like shit about himself. He feels like whatshisname. Rodolphus. Mindless, nasty, violent. That's not who he is, that's not what he's _like._ He's a good fucking person. A decent fucking person.

“I shouldn't have done that. Last night...”

“Don't be a pansy,” Sirius scowls. “It's hardly the first time you've broken my nose.”

“Yeah, but it's different now.”

“Why is it different?” Sirius says derisively. “What, because we're _fucking?”_

“Yes because we're fucking! Jesus Christ, I'm not some kind of fucking wife-beater – ”

“And I'm not your fucking _wife!_ ”

“Yeah, I _know_ that, I'm just saying – ”

“I know exactly what you''re just _saying.”_

“I really doubt that,” James says tiredly. “Look, you're on thin ice with me right now, so don't take the piss, alright? What I'm _trying_ to say is that I'm in fucking love with you, and – ”

“So what?” says Sirius, averting his gaze as if James is doing something unspeakably distasteful that he doesn't want to even _think_ about.

“So _what?_ ”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “I am, too, you pillock. It's never stopped me from punching your lights out, has it?”

“Yeah, but it _has_ though. You didn't hit me back last night. You just let me...”

“Not because I _love_ you,” Sirius scoffs. “I just felt like getting punched. It's really not that complicated.”

“Yeah, because you're _fucked up,_ ” says James. “That wasn't – it wasn't a _game,_ Sirius. It was fucked up, and I– ”

“Don't you dare say you're sorry.”

“I wasn't going to!”

“Good, because– ”

“I'm not doing it again,” says James, pulling on his cloak. “Not ever, do you hear me? No ifs, no buts, no trying to manipulate me.”

“You're pathetic.” Sirius moves to unfasten his collar. “I'd have been better off sticking with Bellatrix.”

James grabs his wrist. “Stop it.”

“Why? What are you going to _do?_ You don't have the balls to-”

“ _Stop_ it,” James commands. “Fucking hell, I shouldn't have to _threaten_ you.”

“Why not?”

“You realize that's a fucked up question, right? You realize no _normal_ human being would ever– ”

Sirius laughs, bitter and mean, loud enough to interrupt him.

“Right, yeah, my mistake, forgot I was dealing with Captain fucking Normal.”

James tightens his hold on Sirius' wrist. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” says Sirius. “Let go of me.”

“Leave the collar on.”

“Why should I? Or is that not a _normal_ question to ask in this situation?”

“Because you chose to fucking wear it for me,” James says, voice pitched low and dangerous. “You leave it on because I'm asking you to, and if that's not good enough reason then I don't even know what we're doing any more.”

They glare at one another for a long, heated moment, James' fingers pressing in hard against Sirius' pulse point. He squeezes once and then slowly lets go, and one skipped heartbeat later, Sirius lowers his hand.

“That would make two of us,” he says. Then, softer, “James...”

He looks so sad, eyes wide and barriers down, practically fucking fragile _._ Far too beautiful to have ever done anything really all that _wrong._

“I have to go,” says James abruptly.

“Fine.”

Sirius shrugs, right back to cool indifference in the space of a syllable, and lays back down on the floor.

“Can you pick up some more of those biscuits on your way back?”

He changes so _fast –_ mask after mask after mask – does he really feel anything at all?

“Listen,” James says, trying to ignore the wave of paranoia. “Padfoot, listen, when I get home tonight...”

“HobNobs,” says Sirius unhelpfully. “That's what they're called. Oh, and get some more beers while you're at it. I'm almost out again.”

James knows for a fucking _fact_ that there are twelve disgusting cans of the stuff in the kitchen alone, but he's late and he's tired and Sirius left the collar on, so he just grumbles something vaguely affirmative over his shoulder as he hurries out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He might as well have stayed at home. He spends the morning wishing that he'd called in sick and just spent the day getting trashed with Sirius instead. Perhaps if he’d stayed, they’d have sorted things out. Perhaps Sirius would have said sorry and meant it, this time, if James hadn’t cut him off. Perhaps if they got wasted together, rather than just getting drunk inside the same four walls while occasionally throwing things at one another's heads and shouting _“no one even asked you”..._

 _If, if, if,_ jeers a voice in his head. _Perhaps, perhaps._

_Perhaps Sirius is right._

_Perhaps you really are pathetic._

This is bullshit. He doesn’t have to take this from his own fucking brain. His brain is supposed to be on _his_ side. It always has been before. It’s Sirius’ fault - it must be Sirius’ fault, because ever since Sirius went poking around in there, smashing and looting and messing things up and stealing his fucking memories, James and his brain have been on unprecedentedly bad terms. It’s like he’s playing host to some monstrous cunt of a lodger who never shuts up or says anything helpful and who doesn’t even have the grace to bloody _like_ him.

“Blah blah blah,” goes the substitute, buzzing away in the background. “Blah blah, Potter, blah blah blah - are you listening to me?”

“Nope,” says James.

The _blah blah blah_ gets louder, and a stubby finger wags in his direction. He looks at Sirius’ empty chair. What the fuck is he even _doing_ here?

He’s sleepwalking. He’s going through the motions. He’s letting things just _happen._ No wonder he doesn’t like himself all that much at the moment - he’s never had a lot of time for people who just take the path of least resistance through life. Passive people, _useless_ people, the kind of people who wait around for someone else to do something.

He stands up, grabs his bag, and walks right out without looking back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cn: controlling behaviour, unnegotiated and ridiculous attempts at 24/7 bdsm stuff (including consensual violence), collaring, no safeword, much less sex than you'd imagine, and as redundant as it seems to warn for this at this point, SUPER UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIP DYNAMICS AND PEOPLE BEING AWFUL.


	19. Chapter 19

James has a plan.

It's a fairly simple plan, as they go. Streamlined. Efficient. It solves a lot of problems. Maybe _all_ his problems. It's remarkable, really, that he didn't think of it sooner.

Things need to change, and James is going to change them. Starting with the bad fucking joke that training has become, and ending with this shitty downward spiral Sirius has dragged them into.  

What he needs is to speed things up, to steer them out of this wretched stasis. To take charge of the situation. And to do that, he needs power. Not just the kind he's always had; the other kind as well. The kind that opens doors without the need to blast them off their hinges, that makes everyone listen without even having to shout. He used to have it. Back at school, he had it in spades. Captain, Head Boy — Sirius might have taken the piss, but it was never the badge that made people listen. They listened because it was _him._ James Fucking Potter. That used to _mean_ something.

Sirius might have taken the piss, but it used to mean something to _him._

_What does it mean now?_

Master, loser, fucking tyrant? Abject Failure. No. No, it doesn't matter. It doesn't have to matter anymore. James is going to change things. Fix things. Prove to Sirius, to _all_ of them, that he's still a force to be reckoned with.

It's really all so fucking _simple._ James just has to do what he's always been best at - he just has to do something impressive. And what could be _more_ impressive than arresting Bellatrix Black?

Apart from killing the dark lord himself, he supposes. But that's a no go, because he's going to do that with Sirius. First things first, and all that - James is nothing if not practical.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's going really well.

Stage One goes off without a hitch; the old death eater pub is open for business, and that mass-murdering bartender cunt is standing right there, pouring drinks and polishing glasses without a hint of shame. And of course James wants to turn the fucker inside out on principle _alone_ ,  never mind the aspect of personal insult. But he doesn't. He doesn't, because that isn't part of the plan.

The trick is to think like a Slytherin.

"What ho, fellow pureblood!" he greets the mass-murderer. "How about those Muggles, eh? What are they like? Something should be done..."

The bartender smiles like they're old friends.

It must be working.

"What can I get you, son?"

"A shot of your finest absinthe, if you please. Oh, and a meeting with Bellatrix Black."

He downs his shot and slams down the glass with considerable dramatic flair, even if he does say so himself.

"You see," he says, "I'm here to join the cause."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stage Two has one small hitch; he has to talk to Regulus. Apparently, showing him to Bella's country house in person is above the bartender's pay grade. Apparently, some absolute _genius_ put Regulus in charge of recruiting James _\- him personally,_ as if they have some kind of _bond._

"I'm not doing this because you're good at your job," James clarifies, en route. "Just for the record. You're actually _shit_ at your job."

"Wow," says Regulus. "That's devastating. Because, you see, I care _so much_ what you think-"

"I'm not signing anything until I see Bellatrix."

Regulus smiles, looking happier than James has ever seen him.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he says. "You're going to see Bella, alright."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stage Three is...

Well.

James wakes up in a dungeon.

So, there's that.

 

 

* * *

 

Bellatrix arrives with predictable fanfare. Hushed voices, hinges creaking, footsteps on the stairs. A sudden flare of wandlight. Hooded eyes and dark red lips, suddenly unsettlingly close.

"Hello, Jamie."

"Don't call me that," he says reflexively.

She raises a well-groomed eyebrow. "Of course, I forgot. You're all grown up now."

James takes a _really_ deep breath and rattles his chains a bit, trying to project an air of affable, innocent curiosity .

"What's all this about then, Bella? Didn't I say I wanted to join you?"  

"You did," she says. "And that's _terribly_ sweet of you, darling. But I do have to ask; did you truly believe it would be that simple?"

"No," scoffs James, indignant. "Of course not. There's, what, some kind of a test, I suppose?"

She smiles at him as if he's a baby. As if she's trying to decide if it's worth the effort of opening the snake pit just for him when it would be so _easy_ to dispose of him right here and now.

She is going to feel _so_ fucking stupid when he throws her in a cell.

"Go on then, lay it on me," he says. "What is it I have to do?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

How long has it been, now?

Days?

Weeks?

The technical term, he thinks, is _fucking ages._

He wonders if it's possible that Bellatrix has forgotten about him. Or died. She could have died. He's reasonably sure that she can die. It would explain her long, long absence better than anything else he can think of.

Surely, if she were alive, she would at least drop in now and then to do a bit of torture and whatnot. It's not like he's some random -- she's hated him for years _._ Hated him _personally,_ not just on general principle.

When she said he'd got to convince her, to make her believe that he's serious, this _cannot_ be what she had in mind. James was expecting some elaborate, overblown initiation ritual, perhaps preceded by a series of violent and unpleasant tests -- like an evil version of the Labours of Hercules. Or was it Achilles? Sirius will know. Some Greek, anyway. The point is, James thought he'd be fighting minotaurs or chugging the blood of the innocent or _something._ Literally anything other than just hanging around in a stinking old dungeon and waiting to see what happens next.

If this goes on much longer, he's just going to have to escape. Hang the long game, he'll just fight them all. He could've done it before if they hadn't all jumped him out of nowhere when he was in guest mode, having just been promised a guided fucking tour by that backstabbing weasel Regulus. If he hadn't been waiting for Bellatrix to show her face, for a chance to fight her one on one and deal with the others later. Get the Ministry to send a squad, maybe. It's grunt work, after all. No need to waste his time on it when the front page of the _Prophet_ will be taken up with pictures of him marching Bellatrix Black off to Azkaban. She'll scream and rage and curse his name, and James will smile just a little bit - wryly, subtly, nothing too smug, and that fucking journo, Nita fucking Skeeter, she'll beg him for a quote and he'll fucking _destroy_ her.

So, yeah. It makes the most sense, in terms of efficiency, to wait until she comes to gloat at him again. To go along with whatever stupid trials she has planned and wait for an opportune moment. It's the mature thing to do. The sensible thing.

Still, that _is_ a lot of waiting. He should keep his options open. Maybe those goons _are_ worth the fight. It doesn't pay to be a snob, after all.

Maybe that's the lesson here.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's starting to wish that he'd told someone exactly where he was going. At this rate, they'll send out a fucking search party and ruin all his hard work with some misguided bloody _rescue._

He's vaguely surprised that it's taken this long. Sirius, at least, must have been looking for him for days by now. So much for those famous fucking tracking skills, eh?

That's good. That's the first thing James is going to say when he sees him. It's important to have a line ready, just in case Sirius does come barging in here before James can finish his plan. Something light, off-the-cuff sounding, something that will demonstrate how completely unperturbed he is by this whole being locked up business. Something that makes it very clear that he's not at all _bothered_ about hanging by his wrists, all sealed up with the dark and the cold and with nothing but his thoughts for company.

Thoughts like _how the fuck could you be this stupid?_

Or _what if you die down here and they never even find the body?_

Or _fucking hell, I could murder a quiche right now._

Thoughts like _you have really fucking lost it._ Like _this was a really bad idea._ Like _what the fuck is wrong with me?_

Those kinds of thoughts. Useless, boring. Lousy company.

And bullshit. Obviously.

James doesn't even _like_ quiche.

 

 

* * *

 

He's so bored he's worked out a way to do pull ups with his chains.

He's so bored that he's actually got _tired_ of doing pull ups.

 

* * *

 

 

He's so bored that he's decided to escape. And failed to escape. And tried again.

And failed.

Jesus H Christ, he's so bored he could _cry._

 

 

* * *

 

 

He takes a break from trying to rip his shackles out of the ceiling and just hangs there like a sack of really _bored_ potatoes for what must be an hour at the least. Humming to himself, thinking and not thinking, stretching his toes down every so often to take a bit of weight off his shoulders.

"So much for those famous fucking tracking skills, eh?" he says to the darkness after a while. His voice sounds rusty, weirdly uncertain.

"So much for those fucking famous..."

It's not that he _needs_ to practice, obviously. It's just that he's not got anything better to do. He's not anxious or anything. Why would he be anxious? Sirius will come for him, and James will escape at the exact right moment to meet him halfway, and Sirius will hug him, probably, because he will have been so worried. Because, from the outside, it must look a lot like James is missing in action right now. And there's just no way that Sirius could ever be so pissed off with him that he'd cleave to some stupid old grudge in the face of an actual Crisis. There's no way Sirius would just lie around in his fucking dressing gown getting wasted and wallowing in self pity while James is (or rather, _appears_ to be) in genuine bona fide _danger._

No, Sirius will definitely be here soon, and James is going to be ready. He'll hug him back. They'll start again. He might even give him his wand back.  

"So much for... " he tries again. "No, this isn't working, is it? No. Okay. I'll think of something else. Just, you know. Hurry up, alright, mate?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I suppose you think this is funny..."

It's not like he really thinks Sirius can hear him. Obviously not. He's not completely mental. It's just been a really long time since he talked to him, and it's so dark in this place that he _could_ be here and it would still look from the outside like James was talking to himself, so yeah. If he wants to pretend that Sirius is listening, why the fuck not? It's not as if anyone's going to see. Only that house elf ever comes down here, and it definitely thinks James is mental already just because he tried to make nice with it.  

"I suppose you think it serves me fucking right. As if _you've_ never made a mistake..."

There are footsteps on the stairs. Raised voices. Hinges creaking heavily.

" _Finally,_ " he says.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's never been so glad to see Bellatrix in his whole entire life.

It's a low fucking bar, of course, but still...

"Where have you been?" he demands. "Are you trying to bore me literally to _death_ down here?"

Light flares, and she raises an eyebrow.

"You're not exactly high on my list of priorities, darling. Out of curiosity, though, how long do you think you've been down here?"

James tries to shrug, but it doesn't really work. Fucking _hell_ but his shoulders ache. Who knew that just being restrained could be so goddamn fucking painful?

_Sirius, probably,_ suggests his brain. _You never even asked if he liked it._

Jesus fucking Christ, this is bullshit. Sirius obviously liked it.

Sirius is and always has been completely fucking _obvious._

"Answer the Lady!"

Someone smacks him in the face, sparing him further reflection. Really fucking hard, as well. It feels like his jaw is exploding.

Bellatrix's voice is a whip. "Greyback!"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Did I tell you to strike him?"

"But —"

She holds up a finger, and Greyback makes a strangled growling sort of noise and falls silent, clutching at his throat and looking murderous.

James snorts, his face still throbbing. "Cheers, Bella. Much obliged."

She casts a Cruciatus on him.

He probably should have seen that coming.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn't see what all the fuss is about. Yeah, it _hurts,_ but no worse than that time he got thrown into a tree. He doesn't even have to bite his tongue to keep his stoic silence going.

Bellatrix snaps the wand in her hand and flings it away in disgust. Then she draws another, and —

He screams.

He _is_ a scream.

His whole entire body is _screaming,_ and —

It eats him alive.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Someone smacks him in the face again.

"Pay attention."

James _really_ doesn't want to. He's fine as he is, thanks but no thanks, he's fine in the bunker he's built deep in the back of his mind and he really hopes he's not saying this out loud —

Another smack. Fucking Greyback. Fucking rattling chains.

"Open your eyes, or I'll open them for you."

Fucking fucking _fucking_ Bellatrix.

"Do you recognize this wand?"

She's holding the splintered end up to his eyes, far too close to focus on, even without his glasses.

He wonders when he lost his glasses.

He wonders how it is that he does, in fact, recognize that wand, given that it's broken and he can barely even fucking _see_ it.

"Sirius," he says out loud. "Sirius..."

He's not even answering the question. He's just... saying it. As if that's going to _help_ somehow. As if it's going to _summon_ him. He bites his tongue.

"That's right," she says. "So why was it in _your_ pocket?"

"Why d'you think, you stupid cow? Because he gave it to me."

Pain again. Sharp little mouths that rip and tear and he won't make a sound, won't give that bitch the satisfaction —

It stops.

She says, like nothing happened,  "He _gave_ it to you. I see. And he did this of his own volition?"

James laughs. He can't help it, it's just too absurd. The idea that he would have to answer to _her_ of all people for questionable treatment of Sirius Black.

Pain.

Fuck.

James is really _sick_ of this. He's really just - he's _fed up_ with this whole situation. Jesus, fuck, it really _hurts._

"What the fuck do you care?"

Bellatrix seems to think about it. "Well," she says. "If he did, you see, I'll really have to kill him, so..."

James scoffs. "I'd fucking _love_ to see you try."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The single most annoying thing about all this, the thing that really sticks in James' craw, is that Bellatrix doesn't even _try_ to interrogate him. She doesn't even try to scan the surface of his mind for signs of deception or useful intelligence or fucking _anything._ She's not torturing him for information, she's not asking any questions about where his loyalties truly lie; she's just doing it because she's got a spare half hour and she's always found him _irritating._

"Do all your new recruits get the personal treatment?" he asks her at one point. "Or am I just really special?"

"Neither," she says, pausing to examine her manicure. "You see, Jamie... how do I put this delicately? You're not _wanted._ You're not worth recruiting. If your blood were less rare, you would be dead. As it is..."

"What do you mean? Not _worth_ it? You're out of the loop there, Bella, your lot definitely want to recruit me. Ask Regulus, ask whatshisname behind the bar - hell, ask your fucking snake-faced _boyfriend,_ he must have given the order."

When the pain cuts out at last, her satisfied smile is all that he can see.

"Want _ed,_ " she corrects him. "Past tense. Those were _provisional_ orders."  

James can't believe this. These evil fucking _swine,_ these _cunts,_ they can't just change their _minds._

"What changed? Was it that speech I made at the pub? Because —"

"You proved your worth," she says. "Or, to be more clear, you proved your lack thereof."

James tries to laugh but it comes out all wrong. "Oh yeah? How's that, then?"

"When you first came to our attention, you were shouting about Regulus and stirring things up at that dismal old bar. Causing quite the little scene, apparently - I'm told you fought ten men all by yourself. Quite impressive, I must say, assuming one believes a word of it."

"I _did,_ " he says. "Ask anyone."

"Your name was added to a list," she continues. "You were watched, for a while, to gauge your potential..."

"Watched? The fuck? By who?"

"Since then, your incompetence, your _mediocrity,_ has become ever more apparent to everyone concerned. This latest little stunt was only the final straw."

"What the _fuck?_ Are you - incompetence? _Incompetence?_ Fuck you. Fuck the lot of you - fucking _mediocrity?_ You don't fucking know me. You don't know - it's been a fucking difficult time. I've been drinking. I'm top of the fucking class. I'm not at my best, alright, but —"

She silences him.

"Merlin, I'm bored," she says, turning away. "You know, I really can't imagine what my cousin sees in you. You're not even fun to torture."

And then she leaves.

She just leaves him to _rot._

 

 

* * *

 

  

Alone in the dark, his anger burns out all too quickly. He shouts at the walls for a while, but the more he tries to project it, the smaller his voice seems to shrink. The dungeon had seemed cramped, but now it's fucking infinite, stretching out in all directions - darkness, darkness, darkness. As big as space itself. He's never looked at the stars and felt inconsequential; that was just a line he tried on Lily, and she didn't buy it anyway. She took it as a joke, in fact, which worked out pretty well for him. It _was_ a joke, in retrospect. It was. But now, looking up at the endless black expanse above, without a single star to wink back and whisper _I see you, James Potter,_ well...

_I'm the fucking joke._

_And no one thinks it's funny anymore._

 

 

* * *

 

 

So, yeah. Rock bottom. Now he knows what that actually feels like.

It's pretty depressing, if he's being honest.

Luckily, though, it doesn't last for very long. He looks down, squinting at his own feet in a bid to take his mind off the oppressive hugeness of his prison, and he catches a glimpse of something else. He can't see what it is, of course, but he doesn't need to see, because he _knows._

Sirius' wand. Broken, yeah, and out of reach, but still.

A fucking _wand._

He's getting out of here.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In his mind he draws a line, from the tips of his fingers down to the exact spot where he's decided that it's resting. He stares unblinking into the darkness, imagining its outline, clenching his fists and remembering the feel of it. Not like holding his own, but not at all like trying to use anybody else's, either. That wand _knows_ him, no matter how much Sirius scoffs at the idea. It fucking _does._ It couldn't even hurt him properly.

It _wants_ to be back in his hand. He just needs to give it a push.

He remembers Sirius declaring wandless magic to be the purest and most interesting sort; wild and lawless and will-powered, impossible to legislate against or regulate in any meaningful way. He's mildly embarrassed to remember that he not only agreed, but unironically used the word "genius" and proposed they write a manifesto. God, they were stoned that night. That whole month, really. He remembers hours and hours spent sprawled on his bedroom floor with the sunlight straining through the curtains and the smell of smoke and sweat getting thicker and thicker, him and Sirius moving things around with their minds and assuring each other that they were inventing the future.

It was so jarring when his parents came home from France; they seemed like invaders, like unwanted guests who insisted on pointless bullshit like mealtimes and showers and _chatting_ about his fucking _day_ and wow, he was a dick that summer. He should do something nice for them, when he gets out. Maybe a hamper or something.

He's getting off track. The point is, he can do this. This is basic. It's just knowing what you want and then making it happen. He can do this in his _sleep._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a while, admittedly.

Wandless summoning turns out to be quite tricky without the use of his hands, and he's sure that his chains have some kind of horrible charm on them designed to muffle his magic.

At first, the broken piece of Sirius' wand that he's chosen to focus on does nothing to suggest it plans on going anywhere. It just lies there, stubbornly inert, reminding James overwhelmingly of its owner when he decides to play dead.

" _Accio,_ " he tries out loud, in case that helps at all. "Accio, Accio - oh come _on,_ you moody piece of _shit,_ just fucking _accio_ already - _"_

Sirius' wand responds to this last by throwing itself impossibly high in the air and then clattering back down to the floor, if anything _further_ from James' reach.

"Don't be like that," he says, sighing heavily. "I'm sorry, alright? I know it's my fault you got broken."

He concentrates harder, willing it to move just an inch, _closer, closer, come on —_

"I shouldn't have brought you here. Not without him."

It moves - he hears it, _feels_ it. Just a fraction of an inch, but —

"That's it, baby, _Accio,_ come on. We need to get home, yeah? I need to give you back."

Closer, closer.

His fingers twitch as the magic surges through them, chains rattling loudly overhead.  

"I need to make things right," he says. "I'm going to do better, when I get out. Drink less, maybe. Try to be, I don't know... kinder?"

He's not sure what he's bargaining with, the wand or the universe at large, but when he repeats, _I'm going to do better,_ it feels like a promise he can't go back on. Even before the fragment of wand spins its way across the floor and comes to a stop at his feet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The chains won't break, so he blasts a hole in the ceiling. Not entirely on purpose, but there's no need for anyone to know that. It's just really bloody hard to use a broken wand with any real precision, especially if you're aiming with your _foot._

His knees buckle at first, but he gets himself together, dusts himself off and goes looking for the other half of Sirius' wand. Having secured it in his inside pocket, he fumbles around in search of the door until the sound of a key in the lock brings him to a dead stop, heart lurching with adrenaline as he fights the impulse to whoop with pure, unbridled glee. If that's Bellatrix, she is in for the shock of a fucking lifetime. God, he just can't _wait_ to show that fucking —

A tall, hooded shadow enters the dungeon, and an urgent whisper stops his hand mid-hex.

"James?"

He squints through the gloom, disbelieving. " _Remus?"_

"Hush," hisses Remus, lighting his wand. "Quiet, _please_. I'll get you out of here, just -"

James steps forward, keeping his bit of wand raised just in case.

"No need," he says.

"Shit!" Remus jumps. "How did you -?"

"Piece of piss," says James. "What are you doing here?"

"Getting you out. Or so I thought, anyway. Still... it'll be easier if you're with me. There's a tunnel, I can take you as far as the entrance."

"Of course there's a tunnel," James says, annoyed. "Every fucker's got a tunnel these days."

"Right. Okay. Can we get going?"   

James gestures to the door. "After you, mate. Lead the way."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He follows close behind, his wand still raised and ready. He's not aiming it _at_ Remus, not as such - he's just keeping his options open. He can hear Sirius' voice in his head, " _you don't know what anyone is capable of."_

"You were right about that, at least."

"Sorry?" Remus whispers testily. "Is it important? Because -"

"Nothing, I was... talking to myself."   

"Well, can you not? They will _kill_ me, you know, if they catch us."

James rolls his eyes, and creeps along the narrow, unlit hallway without another word. The floor feels cold and damp under his bare feet, and every turning seems to take them deeper underground. The stone walls slope inwards and the heavy wooden beams bear down from above, and everything smells of rot.

This isn't how he wanted to do this. Hiding in the dark, sneaking towards the safest exist with nothing to show for his trouble but a swollen jaw and a deflated ego. Following _Remus,_ of all fucking people.  

"Wait," he says, grabbing for Remus' shoulder.

Remus freezes, breathing, "What?"

"We've got to go back," says James. "I need to get my wand, my glasses..."

"For fuck's _sake—_ "

"I thought we were being _quiet?"_

"Are you serious?" Remus hisses. "We can't go _back,_ and even if we could, I mean - I really doubt they've kept your glasses..."

James is already heading in the opposite direction.

"I need my fucking _wand,_ Remus. Go on by yourself, if you want. I'm going back upstairs."

"I can't just—" Remus follows him, grabs him by the arm. "James, I _can't_ leave, I was only going to show you out... now please, just follow me—"

"Why can't you leave?" says James. "Come on, mate, just tell me what you're really doing here."

Remus sighs, releasing him. "I'm working."

"Don't give me that. For _who?"_

"Not for Bellatrix Lestrange, if that's what you're thinking."

"There's no need to take that fucking tone," says James. "I'm the one who's been standing up for you, you know. Sirius told me—"

"Sirius, of course..."

James starts walking again, turning his back on Remus.

"Don't even start with me," he says, without looking back. "If you'd been upfront about your fucking suspicions in the first place, none of this would ever have happened."

"If I had..." Remus trails off, sounding sort of despairing. "Listen, James..."

"I _am_ listening."

"The Ministry—"

James spins around, glaring disbelievingly through the gloom.  

"You're _kidding_ me? You're spying for the fucking Ministry? _You?"_

"Could you say that any _louder?_ "

"Sorry," James whispers. "I mean, really, though? No offence, but—"

"Don't worry, they haven't hired me or anything. There are rules against that sort of thing."

"You don't have to say it like that," objects James. "I don't make the rules, do I? I'd love it if they hired you, you know that. But if they haven't, then what -?"

"Officially, I'm just an informant."

"And unofficially?"

"A man from the Ministry paid me a visit," says Remus flatly. "He was very polite. Very sure that I would want to help in any way I could. To demonstrate to anyone who might be less open minded than he was himself that not _all_ werewolves ought to be sent straight to Azkaban as a...what was it? Pre-emptive measure."

"Wow," says James. "That's really shit, mate."

"The worst part is, it wasn't even difficult. To get myself in with them, I mean. Greyback was actually happy to see me - he says he remembers all his children..."

"Wow," says James again. "Awful. Uh... Moony, mate? Not to be insensitive, right, but is this going to be a, you know, _long_ story? Because I sort of need to..."

He gestures tactfully, though Remus probably can't see him well enough to get the full effect. Who knows, though? Werewolf senses and all that. It's not like Moony's life is _all_ bad. James can't see a fucking _thing._

"Right, of course," says Remus. "Don't let me keep you."

"I mean, another time, you know," James says, walking backwards for a moment just to be polite. "I want to hear all about it. We'll get drinks."

"Right."

They're at the stairs now. Do or die.

"So...  you coming with?"

Remus sighs. "I suppose I am."

"Good man," says James, starting up the cold stone steps.  

"James, did you hear -?"

Remus doesn't finish his question; there's a _thump_ and a curse and the sound of someone falling. James turns, stabbing at the darkness with his bit of broken wand, and Sirius says _"ow!"_ in the most accusatory way he's ever heard and punches him right in the face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius shrugs off the invisibility cloak, a shimmer in the blackness of the stairway, so obviously smug that James doesn't even need to his face.

"Shit at stealth, then, am I?"

"What the fuck?" shouts James, again. "What the fucking _fuck_ , Sirius?"   

The murky shape that is Remus rises, says, "I think that's my line."

"Fuck you, traitor."

"I could say the same to you."

"Shut up," says James. "Both of you. No one's a fucking traitor, alright?"

"But -"

"I _saw_ him -"

"No. Shut up. I don't have time for this right now. I'm going to get my wand, and then I'm going to teach these fuckers a lesson they'll never forget, okay? Now, who's with me?"

There's a moment's silence. Remus clears his throat.

"Actually, James..."

"Of course I am," Sirius interrupts. "Seeing as how I'm _not_ a fucking traitor."

Silence again. Deeply uncomfortable silence.

"Do you know what?" says Remus at last. "Just knock me out, will you? Properly, if you don't mind..."

"Come on, Moony. There's no need to be a dick about it, is there? I’m sure Sirius was doing his best."

“Fuck you,” says Sirius ungratefully, hefting a shape that might be a rock. “I’ll show you _doing my best -”_

And that’s when the alarm goes off.

Really fucking loudly.

“Run!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: torture, slurs, nothing else i can think of rn


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: torture, i guess? idk this is a pretty mellow chapter tbh

 

 

James wakes up in chains again.

Unbefucking _lievable._

 

* * *

 

 

He slips in and out of consciousness, incapable of moving so much as an eyelid, blind and mute and powerless. He hears voices, a chorus of smugly scandalized strangers;

"Isn't that your errant cousin?"

"What is _he_ doing here?"

"It doesn't look good, I must say—"

"What if-?"

"Tonight, of all nights!"

"What _will_ the Dark Lord —"

James blacks out again. Comes to again. He still can't move.

More voices; Sirius, Bellatrix, his mum calling " _breakfast!"_ like she's said it three times already and is right on the verge of losing her rag _._

Sirius again. Sirius laughing. Screaming.

Bellatrix, demanding, "Did the Ministry send you? Does the Ministry know that you're here?"

"I'm done with the Ministry."

"And what about him? Their darling poster boy..."

He's slipping; Sirius' voice is indistinct and not quite real, like the sound of a radio in someone else's room. "I'm done with him as well."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Someone slaps his face. Grey eyes stare right into his brain.

"Who helped you to escape the dungeon?"

"No one."

There's this pressure, this _scrutiny,_ and he would snap if he weren't so sure that he's telling the truth.

"No one," he repeats. "I was... I did it by myself. I didn't need any help from anybody."

"Satisfied?" says Sirius, somewhere in the distance.

The pressure intensifies. "What was your purpose in coming here?"

"I was looking for... I wanted... "

_power, glory, purpose—_

"Something to do," he says.

"And?"

He's too out of it to lie. Too tired to be embarrassed, even.

"I want Sirius to think I'm cool again."

 

 

* * *

 

He wakes up properly, stiff and sore and starving hungry, unsure of what he remembers.

Still in chains, for a fucking start.

"Sirius," he whispers. "Psst, Sirius, are you awake?"

Silence answers, and he looks around, trying to get his bearings. The main thing, of course, is to establish where Sirius is in relation to him, and then, secondarily, where he and Sirius are in relation to the rest of the physical universe.

First bit's easy; Sirius is directly behind him. James can't quite see him, however much he cranes his neck, but there's nowhere else he can really be.

As to the rest, it might take a while to puzzle that out. They're not in the dungeon, certainly. James is tied to a high-backed chair in the middle of what seems to be, on first examination, a fairly normal room. Admittedly, he can't really make out the details - no doubt the decor is as opulent, gothic, and gratuitously snake-themed as in any dwelling the Blacks get their hands on, but to James' eyes it's all just a moody blur of candle-glow and drapery and rich, dark colours.

His mind churns with questions. What is this room, and why are they here? Whereabouts in the house are they being kept prisoner? Are they upstairs now? He'll need to know when they make their escape. He can't afford to wing it, this time, can't afford another mistake. Sirius will lose all faith in his leadership if he fucks up again on his way to getting them out of this.

"Psst," he says, peering over his shoulder again. "Wake up, I need your help with something.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey," says Sirius groggily. "You alright? Where are...? Oh."

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"Yeah," says James. "Tell me about it."

They run through a quick blow-by-blow recap, bickering over the details of what went wrong as they work their way through the main go-to methods for slipping their chains.

"We shouldn't have split up."

"We wouldn't have had to, if you'd just—"

"We _didn't_ have to, you're the one who—"

"Yes, we did," Sirius insists. "If she'd found us together..."

It gets them nowhere, but it's pretty companionable, all the same. They've been apart for so long - James finds that he doesn't really mind if it takes a while to break free, now that Sirius is with him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Admittedly, after a few hours of futile struggling and aching limbs and snippy remarks, the shine does start to wear off just a little bit. Especially when an overzealous lunge on Sirius' part sends them keeling over sideways and crashing down to the floor.

"Well, this is comfy," James says, going for cheerful and not quite getting there. "Nice to have a little lie down. Restful, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. It's not like I did it on purpose. Can you-?"

James tries. "Nope."

"Me neither."

Sirius sighs, sounding irritated, and James hears the back of his head hit the chair with a violent thud.

They lie there for a moment, silence settling like snow - lightly at first, and then heavier, thicker, blanketing the world.

James wonders, out of nowhere, whether Sirius is wearing the collar or not. He wishes he could see him. Touch him. Maybe take it off.

Maybe not.

He clears his throat, but Sirius gets there first, disturbing the silence with a noncommittal, "So..."

"Yeah..."

"Some rescue mission, eh?" says Sirius, less breezily than he probably imagines. "Definitely my finest hour. One to tell your grandkids."

"I didn't _need_ rescuing, you know. I was sorting it out—"

He feels the mood turn sour before he's even finished speaking. He can practically see the dark clouds descending, the contemptuous smile on Sirius' face.

"Of course you were. You and your new best mate. I'm sure you and fucking Judas had it _all_ under control..."

"I didn't need him either!" James objects. "He just _showed up_ while I was on my way out and insisted on getting involved. And he's not a _Judas,_ I keep telling you. He's undercover. Spying for the Ministry or something. Which is ironic, really, because—"

"No, it's not."

"It is, though, because that's exactly what _you_ claimed you were doing—"

"That's not _irony,_ you twat, it's just... it's just an annoying _coincidence,_ okay? Assuming that it's even true."

"Why wouldn't it be true? He was probably roped into this by that same bloke who had you spying on your backstabbing cunt of a baby brother. If you and Moony weren't so fucking secretive and paranoid, we could've worked all this out ages ago."

" _We?"_ Sirius scoffs. "You didn't even know there was a problem until, what, a week ago? You thought that he and I had _sex."_

A vein throbs in James' temple. The sheer _nerve._

"And whose fault is that, exactly?"

"I don't know," says Sirius, his tone suggesting that he very much _does_ know, and that James is a fucking moron, besides. "I mean there's people being secretive, and then there's you being so far up your own arse that you can't see what's right in fucking front of you. I realize you have trouble telling the difference, but —"

James twists as far as he can in his seat, trying to glare at him properly.

"Fuck you. Seriously. You really want to go there?"

"Maybe I do," says Sirius, pettily. "Why the fuck not? It's not like it can make things any worse."

"Why _not?_ I don't know if you've noticed, babe, but we're in a bit of a pickle at the moment. You think we can play the blame game _later?_ "

"Don't call me _babe,"_ says Sirius. "What's wrong with you? And anyway, you started it."

"Oh _very_ mature. Really. Well done. And I only called you that ironically."

"You don't know what that word means, do you?"

" _You_ don't know what it fucking means."

Sirius laughs, and James can't really tell if he's just being a dick or if he genuinely finds something _funny_ about this situation.

"What are you laughing at?"

"You," says Sirius. "I'm glad this experience hasn't forced you to, you know, grow the fuck up or anything."

"Is that what you were hoping for?" says James. He's annoyed by how upset he sounds. He'd meant to play this cool. "Is that why you left me here for so long?"

"What?"

"Don't fucking _laugh,_ you cunt. How many days did you wait after you worked out where I was?"

Sirius no longer sounds amused. "The fuck, James? Seriously —"

"How long did it take you to even _begin_ to look for me?"

"One!" says Sirius. "Jesus wept, you've only been gone for thirty eight hours. What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

James tries to process this, and fails.

"Thirty eight... did you say _hours?_ "

"Yes," says Sirius sharply.

"And you're quite sure - I'm just checking - you're _sure_ that you didn't mean _days?_ "

 

 

* * *

 

 

He's still trying to really _absorb_ the fact that his stint in the dungeons lasted no longer, in real time, than a small-to-medium bender, when Bellatrix deigns to pay them a visit.

She's a lot more composed than he thinks he remembers her being; in the thing that might have been a dream, her voice was urgent, almost harried, as if something was really getting to her. Now, she laughs at the sight of them, and flips them upright, sends their chairs spinning apart so that they're both left facing in the same direction; not bound together any more, but chained to their seats more tightly than ever. Worst of both worlds, really.

Even without his glasses, James can see that she's dressed to kill. In more than just the usual, literal sense. Blue-black silk skims the length of her body, trailing behind her like an oil-spill as she descends on them, diamonds glinting in her loosely bound-up hair.

"Alright, Bella?" he greets her. "You didn't have to dress up just for us, you know. I mean, O for effort and all that, but we don't give a fuck about your evil little tits, so..."

She kisses Sirius on the mouth, ignoring James completely. Sirius, presumably just to spite him, tilts his head and kisses her back.

James fucking _hopes_ it's just to spite him.

He clears his throat. "Excuse me..."

"You stink like a stray dog," Bellatrix tells Sirius, standing over him now with a hand in his hair. "And look at the state you're in... are those _muggle_ clothes? Did _he_ dress you up like that?"

She looks at James, and he feels this little thrill of danger, this glimmer of fear in the animal part of his brain. He opens his mouth, but Sirius interrupts him, jerking against his chains to reclaim Bellatrix's attention.

"I'm not here for fashion tips, Trixie, and if I _was—_ "

It happens so fast - James doesn't even see her draw her wand, just hears the shrill, furious _"crucio",_ and Sirius' cut-off cry of pain. Pain like James felt before, pain like he'd never imagined. And he's seen this before, he has, but that was different. He wasn't _him._ He didn't know what it was really like.

He strains against his bonds, heart trying to lunge right out of his chest. Like it can stop this from happening if his stupid fucking body gets out of its way.

"Hey - hey, _Trixie!"_ He needs to distract her. Make her angrier with him than she is with Sirius. "Is that your porn name, is it?"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Potter," Sirius says, talking over him so loudly that his top class insult goes entirely to waste. "Honestly, Bellatrix, what is he even _doing_ here?"

"You're still claiming not to know?"

"I'm not _claiming_ anything," says Sirius. "I'm _telling_ you, I haven't got a clue. Whatever stupid prank he was trying to pull here, I've got nothing to do with it."

"Prank?" says James, offended. "I'm here on serious business."

They both ignore him. Bellatrix is staring into Sirius' eyes; searching for a lie, he can only assume. That, or it's just more fucked up incest. Hard to tell, at this point.

"And yourself?" she enquires. "The reason _you're_ here? You expect me to believe that _he_ has nothing to do with it?"

"Believe what you want," says Sirius dismissively. "I've already told you, I followed that werewolf. It's not as if I knew it was coming _here_."

Bellatrix straightens up, keeping the tip of her wand under Sirius' chin so he has to tip his head back, has to keep looking right at her.

"Ah, yes, the werewolf..." she says the word like it's a euphemism for something unspeakable. "What was it called?"

_Don't say Remus,_ thinks James, as loudly as he can. He glares at Sirius' blurry profile, gritting his teeth to keep the thought trapped inside. _Don't you dare say Remus Lupin._

"What do you care?" is all Sirius actually says. "I didn't think you could tell them apart."

"We don't tolerate incompetence in our servants. Whoever led you here must be properly punished..."

"You know what these werewolf names are like. It's literally just Wolfy McWolfson or something. Moony Lycan Moonface. Who the fuck knows? I mean, _you_ hang around with a bloke who calls himself _Fenrir,_ for fuck's sake - it's like some kind of tribal thing."

"They are _shockingly_ primitive," Bellatrix agrees. "No matter, then. I'll just have to punish them all. More importantly, my darling, you've yet to tell me _why_ you were tracking this werewolf in the first place?"

"I've got a score to settle with him," Sirius says. "And I'm pretty sure he's stolen my owl, so..."

James scoffs, but they just keep ignoring him. It's starting to get on his tits.

"Excellent," says Bellatrix, entirely too brightly for James' liking. "Then he can be your first test."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Shortly thereafter, Bellatrix leaves to attend to _"more important affairs",_ promising Sirius that she'll see him soon, and glancing at James as if she's weighing up the pros and cons of summary disembowelment. Her hand strays towards her wand...

"I mean, you _could,_ " says Sirius, so convincingly disinterested that even James almost buys it. "But think of the hassle. Think of the _mess._ Is he really worth it?"

"Fuck you, Black —"

"No," says Bellatrix thoughtfully, "I suppose it's not the time. Since he's here, we may as well find a use for him."

Sirius scoffs. "Yeah, well, good luck with that. I think you'll find he's pretty fucking useless, these days."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Nice job," says James, as soon as they're alone. "You really sounded like you hate—"

"Don't talk to me."

"Rude," says James, raising his eyebrows. "This will be easier if I know what we're—"

"Don't fucking _talk_ to me."

Sirius looks at him, and James squints back.

"Are you making a face? Because you know I can't _see,_ right? You're just a sort of sexy oval with an over-long fringe to me, at the moment."

"Fuck you," says Sirius. "I like it this way."

"I suppose you think it makes you look mysterious."

"I suppose _you_ think I should let you cut it off to suit your shitty fucking _preferences,_ " says Sirius. "You realize that someone might be _listening?_ "

James snorts. "Well, if they are, all they're getting is a deeper insight into what a twat you are, so..."

"So shut the fuck _up,_ " says Sirius.

James does, for a bit. He tries to edge his chair a bit closer to Sirius', smiling to himself when he realizes that Sirius is doing the same thing.

"Hey," he says quietly, after a while. "You should keep it like that. If you like it, I mean. It doesn't look _that_ bad."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The curtains are so dark that it's impossible to tell what time it is, out in the real world. James wonders what his mum and dad are doing at the moment. Sleeping or eating or making the rounds at some tedious event or... or what? He doesn't really know what they _do,_ now that he comes to think about it.

They must not know he's missing. Yet. If they did, the whole damn Ministry would have descended on this wretched place by now, and his parents would most likely be leading the charge.

He really ought to call them more often.

"I can't believe _you_ get tests," he says, mostly just to take his mind off his mum. "I was supposed to be doing the tests. I don't see how you're meant to be more worthy of testing than _I_ am."

Sirius bumps his head against the back of his chair. "Go to sleep, James."

"Yeah, right. No fucking problem. I'm tied to a fucking _chair,_ here, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Well, try to get _un_ tied then. _Quietly_."

"What do you think I've been doing?"

"Fuck all, as far as I can tell. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius escape artist, breaking out of dungeons all by yourself? Unless you're saying you _exaggerated..."_

"Up yours," says James. "Exaggerated, my _arse._ I had to use a wand with my fucking _foot,_ I'll have you know. A _broken_ wand. And anyway, I don't see _you_ escaping."

Sirius is definitely rolling his eyes.

"Where did you get a broken bloody wand from, anyway?"

"Ah," says James. "Yeah. Um, listen, about that..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I really am sorry, Pads."

"Yeah," says Sirius. "You've said."

"I shouldn't have taken it with me."

"You shouldn't have taken it at all."

"Yeah," says James. "Maybe not."

Sirius sighs frustratedly, struggling against his chains for a moment before falling still.

"I had my reasons," James reminds him, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not as if I did it just for kicks."

"I know that."

James can't resist asking, "Was it just that once?"

"The memory thing?"

"Yeah. That."

"Of course it was," says Sirius, switching to his best James impression to add, "It's not as if I did it just for _kicks._ "

"Yeah, yeah..." James shakes his head. "Why _did_ you do it?"

Sirius turns his head to look at him directly. James wishes he could see his expression or listen to his heartbeat or _something,_ something that would let him guess whether Sirius is actually, finally _sorry._

"Seemed like the thing to do," says Sirius. "At least at the time. You were never supposed to find out."

"And that makes it better?"

"I don't see why not. No harm, no foul, right? You're the one who's always saying..."

"There _was_ harm," James says. "Lots of harm. To _me,_ Sirius, I had fucking _nightmares_ about it for _days."_

"You did? You never mentioned—"

"Because I thought I'd just got blackout drunk!"

"Well, yeah," says Sirius. "Exactly. You blackout all the time, so I thought..."

"You thought fucking _wrong._ "

"Okay," says Sirius quietly. "I get that."

"Right. Well. Good? I suppose? I mean, it's not exactly..."

"Look, I won't do it again. Alright? If we get out of this alive—"

"When," says James. "Not _if."_

"Fucking pedant." Sirius edges his chair a bit closer. "Okay, _when_."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's definitely night time now. He can tell by the sounds bleeding in from the window - owls screeching, branches crackling, foxes fighting or fucking or just screaming at each other like foxes sometimes do. And then, in between, the stretches of silence; that pure, stark silence that you never get in cities, the kind that used to flood his childhood bedroom while he packed and repacked his school trunk between the hours of one and six am.

Time passes differently with Sirius here, even though the fucker has fallen asleep. Not _faster,_ necessarily. Just different. It doesn't drag, but it stretches - the seconds feel longer, bigger, more significant than they should. It feels like a finite resource; like something he should ration or save up for later.

He wonders how Sirius can sleep in this situation. He literally can't imagine falling asleep right now. It's not just the chair or the chains or the way every muscle in his body feels like it's been boiled and tenderized and then chewed on a bit, before being stuffed back inside his skin with a great deal more force than precision. He doesn't get how Sirius can _want_ to sleep, to fritter time away, to let it go to waste.

Nothing's going to happen 'til the morning now, he's pretty sure of that. Bellatrix must have gone to bed hours ago. That, or she's hosting some kind of all-night death eater party where they sacrifice virgins or goats or virgin goats or whatever it is these people get up to. Maybe some kind of sick, twisted orgy where they all keep their masks on. Seems kind of unlikely, though. Most of the death eaters James has ever met have been disappointingly uptight.

What _is_ going to happen in the morning? He keeps running through it, every possible scenario unfolding in the back of his mind. He makes a plan for each of them, but in the end, he knows he's going to have to wing it. The chains aren't coming off tonight, no matter how much he struggles and squirms and tries to dislocate his own thumbs like that magician Sirius got so obsessed with in the three-to-four days where he bothered to show up for Muggle Studies.

"Psst," he whispers. "Padfoot? Are you awake?"

"No," says Sirius. "Why are you whispering?"

"I was being considerate. In case you were sleeping."

"I _was_ sleeping."

"You obviously weren't, but never mind that. I've got a question for you."

Sirius groans. "What is it now?"

"What was the name of that bloke?"

"Which bloke?"

"You know the one," says James. "You used to have a thing for him. Dead muggle? Good at escaping? Liked getting punched in the stomach?"

"Harry Houdini."

"That's the one. What a name, eh?"

"I didn't have a _thing_ for him. He just did some really cool stuff, alright? Like this one time—"

"God, no, don't start that again."

"Fuck you, you're the one who woke me up to ask me what his name was."

"You weren't even asleep," says James. "I don't suppose you know _how_ he used to do it? Getting out of chains and stuff..."

"If I did, would I be sitting here and trying to fucking _sleep?"_

James sighs. "Fair point."

"I've tried everything," Sirius admit after a moment. "I've even dislocated my thumbs."

"Oh hey, me too! It's harder than it sounds, right?"

" _So_ much harder. Seriously. It hurts like a fucking bitch."

"I _know._ "

Their chairs are close enough together now that he can see the smile tugging at Sirius' lips. He wants to say _I love you more than anything,_ but that would probably kill the mood.

"Looks like we'll have to go for Plan B, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," says James. "About that... how far are you going to take it?"

"As far as it takes."

"Okay, but - I mean, don't get me wrong, that does _sound_ cool. But what does it, you know, actually _mean?_ Say she wants you to torture someone..."

Sirius says, almost gently, "That's the least she's going to want, Prongs."

"Yeah," says James, deflated. "I suppose you're probably right."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like four in the morning. He's not sure why, it just does. It feels like a time for bad thoughts and buried fears and a stiff fucking drink or two to see you through to dawn.

"Sirius?" he whispers.

"Yeah?"

"You want to play a game or something?"

"What sort of a game? I fucking Spy?"

James shakes his head. "Ugh..."

"Do you see what I did there?" Sirius laughs at his own stupid joke. "It's funny because you're so fucking blind."

"Yeah, mate, that's really hilarious. That's up there with Stop Hitting Yourself—"

"Stop Hitting Yourself isn't a _joke,_ Prongs. It's more a sort of artform."

"True," he concedes. "Remember when we did it to Wormtail?"

"Which time?"

"On the train..." he sniggers to himself. "Never seen him get so _angry."_

"St-st stop it now, lads! Stop, it it it isn't fucking _funny!"_

James laughs nostalgically. "God, we were dickheads."

"Speak for yourself."

"Yeah, no, you're right. You're still a dickhead."

"Thanks, mate. That means a lot to me, coming from you."

"We could play Cliff, Shag, Marry..."

"That's a girl game," says Sirius. "And you'll only go and murder anyone I pick for _marry._ "

James rolls his eyes. "I'm not that bad."

"You're _worse,_ if anything. When you thought I'd been shagging Remus—"

"Can we not?" James asks, and he really is _asking._ "Right now, I mean. Can we talk about it when we get out of here?"

"God, no, I didn't mean... we don't have to _talk_ about it."

"Yeah, you know, I kind of think we do. Not now, though."

"No, yeah," says Sirius. "Definitely not now."

"Right."

"Yeah."

"So..." says James. "Twenty Questions or Mornington Crescent?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The footsteps sound like they're coming _up_ stairs, now. James wonders again whereabouts in the house they actually are. Is there a window under all those curtains? Could they maybe—

"Get the fuck _away_ from me," Sirius says loudly, kicking hard at James' chair. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

James grins, and kicks back. "You fucking—"

"Merlin's _balls,_ you're pathetic."

"You kick like a five year old girl."

"You should know, you basically _are_ a _—"_

The door slams open. "That's enough."

"Oh," says Sirius. "Morning, Bellatrix. Any chance you could shove him back in the dungeons?"

"I'll shove _you—"_

"Hold your tongue," she says, flicking her wand in his direction.

He feels the organ in question _twist_ inside his mouth _,_ a sickening, panic-inducing sort of pain that inclines a bloke to do as he's told. At least for the moment.

"Nice," says Sirius, just begrudgingly enough. "I know a better one, though. Just let me out of this chair and I'll show you..."

Bellatrix trails her fingertips down Sirius' cheek, and moves so she's standing behind him.

"You'll have to show me more than that, little cousin."

There's something _off_ about her, James thinks. She's shrouded in the classic death eater black, her face shadowed by the brim of a stupidly glamorous hat which makes her look like some murderous trophy wife at her billionaire husband's funeral. Which is pretty much par for the course, so what is it about her that's bothering him in more than just the usual ways?

She murmurs, barely audible from where James is sitting, "You see, this really is your final chance."

"My final chance at what?" Sirius scoffs. "Getting in your pants?"

"You never had the slightest chance of doing that," she says, her voice still low and silky. "This is your chance to _live,_ Sirius."

Cold sweat starts up out of nowhere, and James digs his nails into the arms of his chair. He's worked out what it is — she's _calm,_ today. She's been here five whole minutes and she's barely raised her voice. She hasn't goaded or lashed out or even backhanded Sirius for suggesting that she might want to fuck him.

"You have to convince them all," she says. "Every last one of them. It's too late now for anything less. You have to prove that you're more than a _liability."_

Sirius' hair is in his face, and James can't read his expression.

"So I'm going to have an audience?"

"Don't tell me you're shy," she says, a bit of sharpness stealing back into her voice. "You don't know the meaning of the word, and this is not the time to learn it. If you so much as hesitate—"

"I won't." Sirius looks up, meeting James' eyes. "Don't worry about that."

James squints at him in what he hopes is a supportive looking way.

"Good," says Bellatrix, all business again. "Then let's begin."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The werewolves all line up for inspection, and the death eaters proper arrange themselves in oversized armchairs on the opposite side of the room. They're directly behind Sirius, and every one of the fuckers is armed and ready to shoot him in the back, but Bellatrix still seems to feel the need for better insurance. When Sirius is released from his chains, _her_ wand is trained on James' throat. They're not directly in Sirius' eyeline, but she's sure as fuck not _subtle_ about making sure he knows.

"The first test is an example of the Dark Lord's generosity..."

Rodolphus does the talking. In any other context, James would find that mildly hilarious, but his sense of humour pretty much departed this mortal coil as soon as Remus entered the room and he realized where this might be headed.

"You get to kill an enemy," says Rodolphus. "So, which of these half-breeds was it who offended you?"

Sirius makes a show of looking up and down the line of werewolves. He takes the wand Rodolphus offers, and aims it without hesitation.

"Sirius," says James, panicking now. "Sirius, you can't just..."

Sirius ignores him. "Avada Kedavra—"

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for comments/kudos/yelling abt the dumb cliffhanger. still @inveracities if anyone wants to hang out on tumblr ♥
> 
> cn: violence, melodrama, bad taste, etcetera

Someday, when he's famous, someone will ask James to describe this; the moment when his other half became a murderer. They won't put it like that, of course; James won't stand for it. But still, they're going to want to know the details.

Come to think of it, the _Ministry_ will want to know the details.

He knows what he's going to say already. He'll tell them that Sirius was grim but determined, that he had no other choice. That he could really see what it cost him to do it.

He'll tell them that Remus was brave and unflinching, still as a statue while the killing curse whipped past his ear and struck the boy behind him.

He won't say _boy,_ though. He'll say werewolf.

It's not like it'll be a _lie_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The truth is, he doesn't see it happen. He misses it entirely. He gets a glimpse of green light, turns his head, and it's already happened. There's a body on the floor, and Remus is crouching beside it, and Greyback is complaining that the _"whelp_ " was some kind of personal favourite, and everything is moving on.

Bellatrix and Rodolphus swap places, the latter dragging the body behind him with a sweep of his wand as he approaches James' corner. He looms up in front of James, obscuring his view of Sirius, and kicks the body so that it rolls right onto James' toes.

He's not squeamish, but —

It's a dead thing.

He's not even wearing _shoes._

He doesn't much want to look at it, but it's the only thing that's close enough to see clearly. The boy is - or was - tall and well-built, but no older than Regulus, with black hair like a crayon scribble framing an eager, curious expression that reminds James uncomfortably of cult boy. Sid. He had a brother, didn't he? James remembers bunk beds, chatter that he mostly tuned out. Someone who was _'coming home any day now, my dad says...'_

That could make things really awkward. Sirius seems pretty fond of the kid, as it goes, and....

Why is he thinking about this? It's irrelevant. It's just a werewolf. A dead werewolf. Sirius wouldn't have killed him if he'd had any _choice._

He has to focus. He has to get them out of here. Sirius is buying time and all _he's_ doing is wasting it.

He could try a partial transformation - let his hands become hooves and keep the rest human for long enough to slip his chains. So what if he's never made it work before? So what if it's not supposed to work that way at all? That just ensures that no one will guess what he's up to until it's too late. He can take Rodolphus, no question, and then he and Sirius will both be armed. They only need to get as far as the window...

"And now for the third test," says Bellatrix, snapping him out of it. "Out of the _way_ , Rodolphus. You'll have your chance to play with that one later."

James says, "Third? What happened to the second one then? Can you people not fucking _count?_ "

No one answers him, but based on Sirius' expression as he steps forward, James infers that the second test has, in fact, happened already, and that it must have been both brief and rather unpleasant.

Sirius is staring right into his eyes, palpably _willing_ him to do (or not do) something very specific in the next few seconds. James wishes he knew what it was. Sirius aims that borrowed wand at him, lips moving silently, too far away for James to have a hope of reading them. Still, before the red light rushes him, he could swear that he hears Sirius' voice inside his head, urging " _fake it."_

 

 

* * *

 

He gives a bloody good performance, if he does say so himself. Not too much, not too little. Bellatrix has tortured him herself, after all; she knows more precisely than probably anyone else just how stoic he can be. She knows what he sounds like when he screams his throat raw, too, but he was caught off guard then - she knows he's expecting it, this time.

It's not that it doesn't hurt, because it does. It hurts more than Sirius has ever hurt him before, and maybe a little bit more than James thought he was _capable_ of hurting him, emotional battery notwithstanding. It just doesn't hurt like the Cruciatus is supposed to, like he knows it _can_ when someone really _likes_ it.

He wonders, for a fraction of a second, if he'd do a better job. If he'd be able to cause Sirius that kind of pain. If he'd like it. Get off on —

"Excuse me?" someone says in that rude-polite way that only the properly posh can pull off. "Is it _working?_ "

For fuck's sake - these people have no grasp of _subtlety._ James' acting skills are wasted on this lot.

"It's working," Sirius says. "He just likes to think he's _brave,_ that's all."

The second time hurts less, but James makes a big old fuss about it anyway - jerking at his chains and pretending to stifle a howl of absolute agony. Giving the fuckers what they want. Sirius does it again, and it barely tickles, and James screams his fucking head off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And now..."

Bellatrix uncorks a small crystal vial, filled to the brim with what looks like liquid shadow.

James is close enough to gag at the smell. It's like every decomposing sheep he ever poked with a stick when he was growing up, only doused in flowery perfume, piled up with all the others, and left to dissolve in the heat of the sun.

"Wait," says Sirius, "I thought your - I thought the Dark Lord did this part himself?"

"As a rule," Bellatrix says. "In his absence, I alone am entrusted—"

James can't hear her properly. The shadows are making this sound _,_ this silky, barely audible, _slithering_ sound that his entire body strains to hear, despite his brain's best efforts to focus on literally _anything_ else.

They're stirring, he can see them. He shouldn't be able to see them. They shouldn't be more than a blur in a fancy bottle. But he can, he can see them behind his own eyelids, coiling together like eels as they spiral up towards freedom.

Towards _Sirius,_ more to the point. Sirius, whose voice is sharp and angry and almost imperceptibly frightened. "But—"

"Don't make me question your commitment, boy."

" _Boy?_ "

Bellatrix backhands him. "If you're a man, then prove it. Hold out your arm."

Sirius does.

The shadows uncoil, seething gas-like around Sirius' wrist. James wants to say _no,_ to shout it, but he bites his tongue, grinding the tip between his teeth as he makes himself watch. The shadows take form - long, featureless worms, wretched deep-sea nightmares whose heads are all mouth - gaping, toothless, hungry. Sucking holes in Sirius' forearm and - James can see it, why can he _see_ it - burrowing greedily under his skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius retches, stumbles, and the shadows worm their way deeper. James can _see_ them, dark and swollen, stretching and distorting and staining Sirius' arm from the inside out.

A pattern emerges. Serpent, skull, etcetera. The lines appear slowly, etched there inch by inch, each squirming strand of shadow leaving its mark as it eats its way into Sirius' arm.

James' throat burns from swallowing bile. It wasn't supposed to come to this. It wasn't _supposed_ to. He was supposed to get them out of here.

He scrapes his wrists bloody, trying to break free. He wants - he _needs -_ to rip that thing out of Sirius' body, to seize it by the tail and tear it out, out, _out —_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius passes the test.

Bellatrix takes the wand from his hand, and throws it back to some random Death Eater.

She gestures dismissively at their audience. "Rodolphus will see you out."

"Just a moment," someone says. "The other matter—"

"Don't tell me you're afraid of a small herd of _muggles,_ Alecto? My, my, whatever next..."

The others laugh sycophantically, and that seems to be that. A few of them pause to shake Sirius' hand on their way out, and every time, James sees it, notices it all over again; the dark mark branded on Sirius' skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He can feel the moment when Sirius almost attacks. He can feel Sirius' heartbeat pounding out of time with his own as the room empties and they're almost, _almost_ alone with Bellatrix.

_Steady,_ James thinks, like he's whispering it into Sirius' ear. _Steady, Padfoot, wait for it..._

He feels the tension building in Sirius' muscles as he holds himself still, waits for that split second of distraction, opportunity, and —

He feels it pass.

Bellatrix never turns her head, or takes her wand off James, and just as Sirius moves like he's going to chance it anyway, Greyback turns away from the door and Bellatrix says, "You, stay behind."

"Really, Bella? I thought we were having family time."

Sirius does a bloody good impression of a person who _isn't_ screaming on the inside, it really must be said. James is proud of him. He hopes Sirius can tell that.

"One last test," says Bellatrix. "Purely for my own peace of mind."

"Oh, come on, when has your mind _ever_ been peaceful? I mean ever, in your _life—_ "

"It's a figure of speech," she says sharply. "And I _know_ when you're stalling for time."

"What would I be stalling for?"

"I really can't imagine. You are, after all, quite finished with poor little Jamie. _Aren't_ you, cousin?"

"Of course I am. I mean, look at him..."

Sirius is taking his own advice, staring at James with unblinking intensity without actually seeming to _see_ him at all. Bellatrix glances over, her free hand settling around the back of Sirius' neck as she looks James up and down.

"I know," she says, as if all his flaws are so fucking _self-evident._

Beside her, Sirius moves his lips without speaking, his fingers curling subtly at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he's trying to—

James feels his chains _give,_ slacken just a little.

"However," Bellatrix continues, turning back to Sirius, "it does seem the slightest bit suspicious that your mystifying, life-wrecking fixation simply _disappeared_ overnight."

He needs to distract her, keep her eyes on him.

"It's because I wouldn't hurt him," he tells her, leaning forward as far as he can. "It's because I've got a _conscience._ He finds all that sort of right and wrong, basic decency, moral compass kind of stuff a real turn off, our Sirius. You know he literally told me he'd be better off with _you?"_

That last is a misstep - she turns toward Sirius, watching his face more intently than ever. "Did you really?"

"No," Sirius scoffs. "I mean, yes, I did _say_ that, but—"

"But?"

"Look, I still hate you, alright?" says Sirius, which is not the tack James would've taken right now, but never mind. "Just because I've joined the gang, it doesn't mean I _like_ you any better than I ever have done. I was just saying that at least you're not some pathetic—"

"He means nice," James chips in.

"I mean _pathetic,"_ says Sirius, taking an angry step forward. "I mean cowardly and self-deluding and completely full of shit. You know what I saw in him, Bella? Back in the day?"

She moves alongside him, still keeping her wand trained on James.

"I can't say I've given it much thought, darling."

"Power," says Sirius. "And the will to use it, as well. Ambition, and ruthlessness, and a mean streak a mile wide, and d'you know what else? What made him seem like he was really _special?"_

"No," she says. "And I'm not sure I care?"

James can move his left hand - not much, but enough, maybe. Definitely. He just needs a moment.

"Everybody loved him," Sirius says. "Everyone thought he was _good._ He could stand on a table and yell about world domination and they'd all just laugh and clap and give him another badge—"

"Because I was _joking,_ " James objects. "You _know_ I was joking."

Sirius gestures contemptuously at him.

"You see the problem, right? I thought he just had them all fooled, you know. I thought he was just that _clever._ But the truth is, he actually buys it. He actually thinks he's _nice._ "

James isn't going to think about the genuine note of disgust in Sirius' voice, isn't going to waste any time on wondering if any part of that is true. He's got a job to do. Just a little bit more...

"He can't let it go," says Sirius. "It's like a fucking handicap. He can't even take what he wants any more without whining that somebody else made him do it."

He twists and tugs against the chain's grip, gritting his teeth as his grazed up wrists rub against unyielding metal yet a-fucking-gain.

"Did you have a point?" says Bellatrix, sort of bored, sort of indulgent, toying with the ends of Sirius' hair. "You know there are people you can pay to listen to this sort of thing?"

"It wasn't an overnight thing, that's the point. I watched him lose his edge and piss away his fucking potential one shitty, disappointing day at a time. To say nothing of the weight issue..."

"What the _fuck?_ What fucking _weight -_ "

"That's enough," says Bellatrix, shaking her head. "Just take what you want and dispose of him. I don't have time for this."

Sirius hesitates. "What I want?"

"Unless you'd rather Greyback did it..."

Greyback, who's been silently eyeing up the corpse at James' feet for so long that James had mostly forgotten about him, looks up with a malevolent sort of interest.

"I'd be happy to oblige."

"Oh, do shut up," says Bellatrix. "You're not here for your _conversation."_

"I'll do it," says Sirius, only a little bit hasty. "We'll have to untie him, though...."

Bellatrix cocks her head. "Just how stupid do you think I am?"

Sirius opens his mouth to answer, but something explodes, and saves him the trouble.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's massive. Louder than loud - so loud that, at first, James isn't sure there's been a sound, that his eardrums haven't just imploded. It's only when the dust starts to settle and the screaming breaks through the floor that he really gets it.

Something is exploding in a _major_ way down there.

Bellatrix hurries for the door, saying, "Keep an eye on them, Greyback."

And this is his chance —

 

 

* * *

 

 

His chair shatters on Greyback's impenetrable skull.

"Damn it—"

Sirius jumps on the bastard, arm wrapped tight around his throat.

"For fuck's sake–"

Greyback throws him, turns on James with an animal grin. James waves a chair leg, backing towards the wall.

"Sirius–"

"I know."

"Then–"

"Now?"

"Let's do it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He loops the chain around Greyback's thick, gnarly wrists, locking it in place with the last dregs of magic his much-abused body can conjure. Whatever nasty little enchantment Bellatrix put on his bonds to keep him from repeating his previous escape, it seems to be lingering, sapping his power even now. He'd kill for a wand — any wand, anything to make this easier. He can hear shouting downstairs, furniture smashing, voices shrieking spells. A battle, a _real_ battle, and here he is, all but fucking impotent and barely able to _see._

"Padfoot," he says, looking up from his work. "Oi, Padfoot, change back and help me with his legs."

Padfoot ignores him, still sitting in the corner by the body - he doesn't look like he's moved a muscle since James switched back to his human form. That's a good five minutes of staring at the dead boy, which has got to be at least four minutes more than is healthy.

Really, ideally, it would be better for everyone if Sirius hadn't looked at all.

"Padfoot," he says sharply. "Come here. Stop sniffing around that corpse."

Sirius doesn't change until James reaches out to scratch Padfoot behind the ears, human again with a violent shake of the head.

"Don't."

James tries not to look at the mark. "We have to get out of here."

Grabbing another length of chain, Sirius starts tying Greyback's ankles, brisk and steady-handed.

"I'll get you out. Don't worry about it."

It seems unwise to mention the fact that he's _not_ worried, not about that, so James just covers Sirius' hand with his own, adding his magic to the muttered binding spell. Strictly business, of course, but the touch still mutes the rest of the world for a moment. Sirius' skin is surprisingly warm. James thought he'd feel like... well, like death. He _looks_ like death, that's for bloody certain.

"James, don't."

He takes his hand away, and clears his throat.

"D'you know what happened to my cloak?"

"Yeah, it's uh - I've got it here. Back pocket."

"Bellatrix didn't check your _pockets_?"

Sirius shrugs. "Doubt she's even heard of a back pocket. Here, there you go."

It's silky-cool in James' hands, shimmering over his cuts and bruises like a soothing magical breeze. "Thanks," he says, "for keeping it safe."

"Don't be stupid. Throw it on, and I'll show you the quickest way out."

"What about you?"

"Never mind about me."

"Okay, but I _do_ mind about you," James says testily. "And what about _him?_ And - shit, what about Remus?"

"Never mind all that. Just put your cloak on and stay close to me. There's a tunnel down in the—"

"Yeah, I know. I know about the tunnel. Jesus."

"Calm down."

"I am fucking calm," snaps James. "I was _perfectly_ calm until you started talking to me like I'm a _child._ Why are you acting like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're not coming with me. Like you're trying to get me out of the way."

"I'm trying to get you _out,_ you pig-headed —"

"We're getting out _together."_

"I can't, James. I have to fight—"

"You don't even have a wand! Fucking hell, I like a fight as much as the next man, but this isn't the fucking _time._ Tactical retreat, alright? We don't even know what's going on down there."

"I do," says Sirius heavily. "It'll be John and what's left of the others."

"Oh, come _on._ What the fuck would _John_ be doing _here?_ "

"Looking for him." Sirius jerks his head in the direction of the dead boy. "For his son."

"Oh, shit," says James. "So that is whatsit then? Sid's brother?"

"Yeah."

James whistles through his teeth. "Wow."

Sirius is staring at the body again. Scratching at his forearm like he doesn't know he's doing it. "Yeah..."

James grabs his shoulder, shakes him a bit.

"Hey, none of that. Stay with me, alright? If that's true, then it's all the more reason for you to get out of here as soon as fucking possible."

Sirius looks right through him. "Put your cloak on."

"You put it on."

"That doesn't make any sense."

" _You_ don't make any fucking sense. You think I'd just _leave_ you here? Come the fuck on."

"James —"

There are footsteps on the stairs, and something else explodes in the distance.

"Save it," says James. "We are _leaving_. Right the fuck _now_."

He stands, and extends a hand to Sirius, more a demand than an offer of help. Sirius takes it, lets James haul him to his feet, gripping tight enough to hurt.

"Wait, listen—"

The footsteps are louder, closer, almost at the door. James raises an eyebrow, and Sirius nods. They arm themselves, and take position on either side of the door, Sirius' gaze fixed on James' face as he readies himself and waits for the signal.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Shit—"

" _Bastard—"_

"Stop it!"

"Remus?"

"Yes! Stop hitting me! Jesus, fuck, is that _silver—_ "

Sirius shrugs, candlestick still poised above Remus' skull. "Probably."

"For crying out loud—"

"Most things are, 'round here," James chips in. "Even this chair leg's got a sort of silver bit here - look, under that blood there..."

"You know," says Remus tiredly, "there are times when I really _despise_ you two."

"Hey, now, be reasonable. It's not as if we knew it was you."

"Yeah," says Sirius. "What are even you doing up here?"

"You mean apart from being bludgeoned with a massive stick made of the one thing I'm _fatally_ allergic to?"

"No need to get testy," James says, leaning in for a closer look. "You're not exactly dying _,_ are you? You've just gone a bit blotchy, there and... ooh, yeah, there. Nasty. You should put some ointment or something on that, mate."

Remus makes wolf eyes at him. "Ointment. Right."

"Steady on, don't bite my head off. We're having a really rough day."

Glancing up at Sirius' arm, Remus says, sort of pointedly, "I'd noticed."

Sirius tenses, narrows his eyes. "Something you want to say, Lupin?"

"How long have you got?"

"Not long enough," James says firmly. "Whatever you've got to say to him, you can say it on the way home. We were just about to get out of here."

"Well, then, I'm sorry to have interrupted. Please, by all means, go right ahead."

James sighs. "Remus, mate, don't be like that. We weren't going to leave you behind."

"Of course you're going to leave me behind."

"But—"

"I told you, I have work to do. Responsibilities. We can't all treat this like a game."

"Fuck you—"

James grabs Sirius' wrist before things can get violent. "Easy, Padfoot."

"What's the matter, Sirius? Are you not having fun anymore? Did things go a bit too _far?"_

"Shut your fucking mouth," snaps James. "Are you fucking suicidal? I don't care what your problem is, you lay the fuck off him or I bloody well _will_ leave you behind—"

"You realize that's what I _want?_ " says Remus, voice rising unnaturally. "I want you to leave me alone to do my frankly horrible job without worrying about _you two_ and what sort of havoc you're going to cause next."

"That's a bit harsh—"

"Harsh? Do you want to talk to me about _harsh?"_ Remus sounds practically hysterical. "The things I've seen - the things I've had to _do._ The children, Jesus—"

James exchanges a _what the fuck_ look with Sirius.

"Er, Moony?"

"You have no idea," Remus says savagely, looking up at them with hollow eyes. "You have no... no _reason_ at all to be here, but some of us don't have a _choice._ It can't all have been for nothing. It just can't."

"Ok-ay," James says slowly. "So, short version, you don't want to come?"

"I want—" Remus' voice cracks. "I want you both to just... just _fuck off,_ James, alright? Just, please, just fuck off, fuck off—"

"Okay, mate, okay. Relax. It's going to be alright..."

Remus buries his face in his hands, and Sirius raises an eyebrow at James, leans in to stage-whisper, " _Awkward_."

 

 

* * *

 

 

All things considered, it's probably lucky that Greyback gets loose when he does. There's nothing like a deranged, murderous, half-chained werewolf for breaking an uncomfortable silence, after all. And yeah, things get a bit hairy for a moment when the fucker goes for Remus, and Sirius gets in the way, and it does _briefly_ look like they're all going to die, but still. As situations go, it plays to James' strengths, and doesn't necessitate searching his pockets for a handkerchief.

Also, the part where he drags Greyback bodily out of a second floor window is extremely fucking cool. It hurts at the time, but it's totally worth it. He dusts the broken glass off, and grins down at the stupid, bleeding, unconscious bastard, giving his head a good kick.

Sirius scratches at his forearm, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

"James—"

"Nope, no way. Grab his other arm, alright?"

"Okay, but—"

"No," says James, fixing the chains around Greyback's ankles. "We're not going back, and we're sure as fuck not leaving this hellhole empty fucking handed."

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, so, thanks for the comments! sorry i haven't replied; had to ration my typing to get this one done by my totally made up deadline. anyway, warnings... violence and sex? let me know if there's anything else ♥

 

 

"If I just had my broom..."

"Not _again_ , James."

"Or a wand. A wand would do. I could use it to summon my Nimbus..."

"I could use it to kill myself," says Sirius. "And you. Murder-fucking-suicide—"

"Steady on."

"Stop talking about your fucking _Nimbus,_ then."

"Alright, alright. Jesus. I'm just saying..."

Technically, it's true that this isn't the first time James has _just said_ basically the same exact thing over the course of their journey. In his defence, though, a broom _would_ come in really fucking handy right about now. His feet are killing him, aching and raw from the long, shoeless trek through the godforsaken countryside, and Greyback is somehow even heavier than he looks. Plus, he keeps coming 'round and trying to get loose and James is getting really sick of knocking him out again.

Sirius is fuck all use, his whole attention focused on the things they've left behind. It's that _noise_ that's gone and done it _,_ that ungodly howl of furious grief that caught them as they dragged their ten-ton prisoner across the courtyard. John, presumably. Not their fucking problem. And it's over now, it's gone, but Sirius can't seem to drop it. He keeps staring at his own forearm, glancing back over his shoulder, fumbling his grip on Greyback.

"Listen," says James, eventually. "Just don't think about it."

Sirius keeps walking. "Think about what?"

"You know..."

"I'm not thinking about anything."

"Sirius," he says, a bit hopelessly. "Come on."

"Come on, yourself. You're the one who's lagging."

"Yeah, well, my feet hurt—"

"Jesus Christ," says Sirius. "You fucking pampered _baby_."

"What, because _you_ spent every day of your childhood crawling over broken glass to reach the cardboard box you had to sleep in?"

Sirius stops dead. "You want to talk about my childhood?"

"No," James says hastily. "Not at all. I didn't - look, I didn't mean it like that."

"What did you mean it like, then?"

"Nothing, mate, I'm on your side—"

"My side of _what?"_

James sighs. "Nothing, nothing... "

"Fucking hell," says Sirius, unreasonably exasperated. "Just keep walking, will you?"

Reminding himself that Sirius is under a lot of strain at the moment, James lowers his voice to a discreet, private mutter, " _You're_ the one who stopped."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm going to take my time with _you,_ " Greyback promises. "I'm going to-"

"Christ," James says wearily. "Whose turn is it?"

Sirius tosses him the stick. "Yours."

James takes a good swing, brings it down hard on the top of Greyback's skull. It's definitely getting easier to knock the fucker out - two solid whacks is all it takes.

"There we go," he says, grabbing an ankle. "Hey, d'you want to play a game?"

Sirius does the same, falling back into step beside him. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Alright," says James. "Do you want to do a song?"

"No, I don't want to do a _song._ What sort of a _song?_ What are you even talking about?"

"You know, like a marching song. Like they do on the television."

"Oh, right, because you're the expert now on what they on they do on the television? _I've_ never seen that. _I've_ never even _heard_ of a marching song, so—"

"Look, do you want to do it or not?"

Sirius makes this noise like _he's_ the one whose patience is being tried to bloody breaking point. "Not," he snaps. "Obviously not."

"Obviously," says James, through gritted teeth. "What _do_ you want to do, then? Do you want to _talk_ about it?"

"Of course I don't want to fucking —"

"What, then? _What?_ I'm trying to help, but—"

"Nothing!" says Sirius, loud enough to startle a small flock of birds out of a nearby fir tree. "I don't want _help,_ I don't want to _sing,_ I don't want to be _jollied_ out of it. I just want to walk. Alright? I just want to fucking walk and to be left the fuck alone."

James sighs, squinting up at the bird-shapes swarming away into the streaky, slate-dark clouds ahead.

He wishes his Nimbus were here.

"Alright," he says. "Yeah. Let's just walk for a bit."

 

 

* * *

 

  

They've been walking _forever_. For miles upon miles. Traipsing across endless acres of wet grass under a drizzling, grey-white sky, barely speaking except to confirm whose go it is to wield the stick. Hauling their captive over rickety gates and muddy, awkward brooks which James could navigate just fine if he had either shoes or fucking glasses. Moving further and further from the last road they saw, until only the odd sheep pen or barbed wire fence so much as hints at habitation.

The light is starting to dim when James stops, peering up at a tall, gangling tree as he wipes some kind of literal _shit_ off the sole of his ruined right foot.

"Where _are_ we?" he says. "Did you know there was a fuck-off massive _forest_ around here?"

Sirius just keeps walking, dragging Greyback by the ankle all by himself. He lets the nasty, heavy cunt's head bump over some jutting root or hidden rock with apparent indifference. Without even seeming to _enjoy_ it.

James catches up, tries, "D'you think we're nearly there yet?"

"Nearly _where?_ "

"Well, anywhere with floo access, for starters."

Sirius shrugs. "I doubt it."

"You could at least sound like you care."

"Yeah, but I don't, though."

"Fuck's sake, Sirius, I'm this close to—"

"What?" snarls Sirius, dropping Greyback and rounding on James with this savage, furious look on his face. " _Leaving?_ Go right ahead. Go on, walk away from it all. Wash your fucking hands of me. Just take your precious _prisoner_ and fuck right off, alright?"

James hugs him.

He doesn't really see what else he can do.

"Don't be daft," he says. "I'm not going anywhere without you ever again in my life. I mean, look at what happens when I try to - _ow!"_

He shoves Sirius away, pain wailing like a fucking police siren from his (surely broken) toes. "You fucking _cunt,_ you _epic_ fucking—"

"What?" says Sirius, like he didn't just _stamp_ on James' bare fucking foot with his massive cunting _boot,_ most likely crippling him forever.

"Shit, fuck, _fuck,_ " is all James can really manage at the moment. "My _foot,_ you fucking psycho, see if I _ever_ try to be nice to you—"

"What? I only..." Sirius looks down, frowns, and says accusatorily, "Why have you got no _shoes_ on?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Manhandling him onto a convenient tree stump, Sirius kneels down in front of James and beckons for his foot.

"I should kick you in your stupid face," says James, obliging him.

"Come on, Prongs, it's not as if I meant to—"

"Hurt me? Really? Is that why you stamped on my foot?"

"You were crowding me," says Sirius, rubbing his thumb over James' ankle bone.

" _Seriously?_ "

"Look, I wouldn't have done it if I'd known you were swanning around barefoot..."

"How the fuck could you _not_ know? You've got eyes, haven't you?"

Sirius runs a hand through his hair. "I've been a bit..."

"Distracted? Moody? "

"Yeah, probably," Sirius concedes. "Let's have a look then..."

Thumb stroking idly across James' shin and down to the arch of his instep, he bows his head to survey whatever irreparable damage he's caused to James' three smallest toes.

"I can't even bend them," James says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out hoarse. "I'm trying to bend them right now, look — see? Are they bending? Are they _fuck."_

"You're going to be fine," says Sirius. "Toes are like that."

James lets his eyes drift shut, his focus shift to the warmth of Sirius' hand and the light, tingling touch of his fingertips.

"What do you know about toes?" he grumbles.

"Enough to know that you're making a fuss about nothing. Your real problem is the fact you've been walking around without shoes on like a prize fucking idiot, picking up all kinds of horrible shit. The soles of your feet are fucking disgusting."

"No one's making you touch them," James points out. "And it's not like I _chose_ to come out barefoot. It's not like it's a _fashion statement."_

"We need water," says Sirius, ignoring him completely. "Sort out some kind of a vessel and I'll go back to that stream."

James looks around for something to transfigure, settling on a decent-sized rock before remembering, "I don't have my wand."

"Can't you do it without?"

"I've never tried," James admits. "It's finicky."

Sirius sighs ostentatiously, dropping James' foot and looking away.

"Oh well, I mean, if it's too _difficult_ for you..."

"I know what you're doing," James says. "And I want you to know it isn't working. But, you know, just for the record _,_ I never said I couldn't do it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Nice," says Sirius, some time later.

James scowls, and throws the stone/bowl at him.

"Yeah, alright, I did my fucking best."

Sirius catches it. Contemptuously. How is that even _possible?_

"So, what you're saying is..."

"Yes," says James. "That's right. I can't fucking do it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

James isn't one to be dramatic, but it's really kind of hellish after that.

Straight off the bat, he's forced to choose between cramming his throbbing broken toes into Greyback's massive boots and dealing with Sirius' irritable insistence that he's going to get foot rabies. As if that's even a real thing.

"Why didn't you just do this in the first place?" Sirius demands, tying the laces for him like he's a _child._

"Oh, I don't know, because they're fucking clown sized? This is ridiculous, I can't walk in these..."

"Well, then, I suppose we'll have to stop here. Wait until your tiny feet grow."

"We're the exact same fucking shoe size!"

"Are we, though? I don't think we are. That doesn't sound right to me."

"You fucking—" James has to stifle a genuine scream of frustration. "Why don't you swap with me, then? Why don't _you_ wear the clown shoes, how about that?"

"I would," says Sirius. "But, you know, I've done the laces now and everything. I'll just have to switch with you next time we stop."

 

 

* * *

 

 

So they walk. And walk. And every step is awful, every step is _hell._ He could've had Sirius washing his feet, for fuck's sake. Sirius might have even dried them with his hair, gone full on _biblical_ about it, but James will never know. Because he couldn't do the simplest fucking spell. Because he's, what, not _worth_ it now?

Fuck that. Fuck them all. He's only fucking _human._ He's tired and hungry and damp right through to his bones, and his feet fucking hurt, and he just wants his mum to make him a sandwich and tell him how brave he's been. He wants clean sheets and freshly squeezed orange juice and a long, hot bath full of brightly coloured bubbles, and he wants for someone to be _nice_ to him.

Fat fucking chance of _that._

 

 

* * *

 

 

They find a river, if you can call it that, running through the trees. It's more a sort of muddy trickle, really, but James is in no mood to drag Greyback over it right now. Besides, it gives him a good excuse to sit down.

"This is a decent spot," says Sirius, sounding almost cheerful. "Let's set up camp..."

"We've nothing to _set up,_ mate."

"Yeah, alright, but—"

James sighs, settling down on a log. "God, I miss my bed."

" _My_ bed, you mean."

"Our bed, fine, whatever you like. Who cares? I'd sell my soul for even _Wormtail's_ bed right now."

Sirius scowls, scuffing at a clump of grass. "Wormtail's bed is shit."

"Yeah, I _know_ that, that's the _point,_ I'm - never mind. Never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm just saying—"

"It's like a fucking marshmallow," Sirius says darkly.

"Jesus wept, I know it is. I _know._ My point is—"

"You don't want to stay here."

"Exactly," says James, pointing for emphasis. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

"And here I thought you wanted to run away and live in the woods."

"Yeah, well, this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Oh, I'm so _sorry._ Shall I clean the place up for you? Pop on an apron and whip up a gourmet dinner _?_ These are the fucking woods, James. This is what a wood is like. You can't blame me for the state of the _woods."_

"I'm not _blaming_ you for anything! And I haven't even _mentioned_ how fucking hungry I am—"

"Not in the last five seconds, no."

"Not at _all_ since we found that Twix in my secret pocket, and—"

"I still can't believe you kept a fucking _Twix_ in there and not my fucking _wand._ "

James grits his teeth, focuses on breathing _._ He promised, didn't he? _I'm going to do better. '_ Better' probably doesn't translate to 'strangling Sirius to actual death and burying him here in the woods'.

His mind flickers back to the werewolf boy, the real life corpse flopping onto his bare feet.

He might need to find a new line of cathartic hyperbole, now that he comes to think about it. Somehow the whole murder theme just seems a bit heavy now. The thought of Sirius dead, Sirius as a dead thing, it's —

"Why are you breathing like that?" Sirius says irritably. "What's wrong with you? Please don't tell me you're going to be _sick._ "

"No, I'm just... I just feel like shit, alright? Like _wet_ shit. And I can't see, and my feet hurt, and I really, _really_ want to go home."

Sirius snorts, turning his back on him. "Of course you do."

"What the fuck? Don't be like that..."

"Like what?" says Sirius. "I'm going for a walk."

"Are you kidding me? A _walk,_ Sirius _?_ We've been walking all fucking _day."_

"So what?"

"So, come on," says James. "Be reasonable. Sit down with me, we'll have some dirty water. Plan our next move, you know..."

Sirius is already walking away. He seems to merge with the trees, blurring into the twilight and then disappearing altogether. It's as if he was never even there.

"Uh... Sirius?"

Silence.

James glances down at Greyback, then peers ahead into the gloom.

"Babe?" he calls, a bit louder. "You are coming back, right?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius does, eventually, come back; appearing out of nowhere just to make him jump.

"Scared of the dark, Potter?"

He's holding his right hand awkwardly, and his knuckles are so fucked up that James would have to be full on _blind_ not to notice, but he does also seem a bit more relaxed. Best not to question it, all things considered.

"Tosser," says James, rolling his eyes at him. "Did you find the way out while you were dicking around out there?"

"It's a forest, Prongs, not a fucking labyrinth. Every way leads out."

"Yeah, shut up, you know what I mean."

Sirius shrugs. "East is the quickest way back to a road."

"Alright, East it is."

He stoops to grab one of Greyback's ankles, gesturing to Sirius to do the same. Sirius does, hair obscuring his face as he asks, would-be-casual, "And then what?"

"How d'you mean?"

"What's the plan?" says Sirius. "Back to London? Back to normal life?"

"Well, I mean..."

"Are you planning to drop me off at the flat before you turn in your prize to the Ministry? Hide me away in there until, what, they put you in charge of the country?"

"Don't be daft," says James, who can see now where this is going. "We'll work something out..."

"Like what? A new fucking arm?"

"I was thinking more like sleeves. Long sleeves, you know?"

Sirius makes a disbelieving noise that could, in theory, be classed as laughter. "Sleeves," he says. "Brilliant. Why didn't _I_ think of that?"

It occurs to James that he's not really ready to go into the logistical details of re-entering civilized society with a bloody great evil snake tattoo, at the moment.

"Hey, you know what? I think I _do_ fancy staying here tonight."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Having got his way at last, Sirius throws himself into the whole camping project with frankly alarming enthusiasm. Not content to just drape Greyback's cloak over a couple of branches and huddle underneath it until they fall asleep (James' favoured option), Sirius insists on piling up mountains of firewood, gathering "construction materials", and arguing with James about which trees he's allowed to piss behind, based on their relationship to some totally made up "perimeter".

James lets him have his way, hardly even voicing his very reasonable scepticism when Sirius outlines his vision for their shelter. He says _"that might be tricky,"_ a couple of times, and asks things like _"how is that going to work, though?"_ and _"lash them together with what?"._ Which Sirius seems to find tremendously annoying, but is actually James being helpful, committing himself to trying to work this stupid thing out when any lesser man would just point out, _"there's no way we can build that"._

He does try, as well. He numbs his hands picking pebbles from the cold, muddy river, hobbles around on his aching feet to arrange them in concentric circles because Sirius reckons there's some old rite or ritual that's going to bend the forest to their will, whatever the hell that even means.

"Right," says Sirius, standing inside the innermost circle, under the furthest reaching branches of his chosen tree. "We need a fire."

"Okay."

"And a sharp rock. And some kind of blood sacrifice..."

James glances over at Greyback. "Okay," he says slowly. "But-"

"Like a bird or something. Jesus, what's the matter with you?"

"I just thought..."

"What, that murder is my new favourite hobby?"

"No, come on, of course not. How was I supposed to know what you meant by a _blood sacrifice?"_

"Most people would assume goat," says Sirius. "Or lamb. Proverbially, it's a lamb _,_ so..."

"Where the fuck would we find a lamb around here? Why would my mind go to _lamb_ of all things?"

"Why would your mind go to cold blooded _murder_?"

"I don't know! It's been a long day!"

Sirius laughs, tilting his face up into the rain. "You can say that again."

Even his stupid, blurry silhouette is beautiful. He could have his own cult, James thinks, looking at him now; standing there with his mad stone circles and the stark, jagged lines of the tree lending him all this dramatic, moody ambiance, as if the wood has already bent to his will without the need for any ritual. People would set themselves on fire for him, but Sirius would only find that annoying. He'd find it all annoying, come to think of it — he'd hate the responsibility, balk at any kind of expectation that he care or think about even one other human being, never mind enough to make a proper cult. He doesn't have the patience or the motivation to lead anybody anywhere.

"What are you staring at?" says Sirius. "What can you even _see?"_

"I was just thinking what a lousy leader you'd make for a cult..."

"Why? Are you starting one?"

"No, of course not. I mean hypothetically."

"Is this about John?"

"What? No, I'd forgotten all about him. Although now that you mention it..."

"James," says Sirius warningly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Not _that_. I'm just curious - what's the deal with you and him?"

Sirius makes an irritated noise and starts arranging the firewood in the middle of his circle. "There isn't one."

"What are you, though? I mean, are you friends, or...?"

"Not really. He's a bit of a cunt, to be honest. Horrible father, as well."

James joins him, crouching down to help with the fire. "What, then?"

"He gave me somewhere to fight. He understood about... he didn't ask any questions, alright? No one asked any questions in that place. And he hates my family as much as I do."

"Why? I mean, not that they're not hateable..."

"He's basically one of them," Sirius says, shrugging. "Second cousin thrice removed, I think it was. His parents disowned him because he's a squib. Still got the family home, though, when they died. Property is weird like that."

"Yeah, it is," James agrees absently. "I _knew_ that was a magic house."

"Well, yeah, no shit. Great detective work, there, mate. Anyway, like I said, he hates the whole damn lot of them. And he wanted to _do_ something, you know, he had a plan..."

"What plan?" scoffs James. "Punching death eaters? I'd hardly call that a _plan."_

"Yeah, well, it was better than anything you could come up with."

"Oh, come on—"

"It was, though. You weren't coming up with anything _._ You just wanted to mope about Evans and wait for the Ministry to give you a badge."

"Seriously?" James says, more than slightly offended. "So, what, you thought you'd just replace me? With _him?_ You thought you'd just find someone else to follow, seeing as how I'd lost my _edge?"_

"Don't be stupid."

"You're the one who said it."

Sirius stands up, looking utterly incredulous.

"To _Bellatrix,"_ he says. "I was trying to save your life, for fuck's sake. You'll have to excuse me if I said something _mean_ in the process."

"I'm not—" James cuts himself off, counts back from five. "It isn't about

that. I just..."

"What is it about then? Because, you know, if I'd really replaced you with John or whatever, then I wouldn't be standing here, would I? I wouldn't have run away to hide in the woods just because you said so."

James looks up, frustration departing his body on a long, slow breath that leaves him quite deflated. "Sirius," he says tiredly. "Listen..."

"I don't need you to tell me again why it was fucking _necessary._ I'm not arguing about it, I'm just pointing out the obvious."

"Yeah, alright," says James. "I get it. Let's just do this fire, eh?"

"I _am_ doing it."

"Right. Of course you are. So, er... do you actually know _how_ to do a fire? Without your wand, I mean."

Sirius scowls down at him, outrageously affronted.

"Of course I fucking do."

 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, James looks at Sirius across a heap of damp, cold firewood.

"So," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Fuck you."

James leans forward, pretending to warm his hands. "I'm _loving_ this fire."

"You're not funny," Sirius tells him. "You could at least try to help."

"Oh, no, you're the expert. I wouldn't dream of—"

"Jesus fucking _Christ,_ I'm going to set _myself_ on fire in a minute. Burning alive would be a welcome fucking break at this point, let me tell you."

James snorts. "Good luck with that."

Sticks scatter wildly as Sirius lunges at him, and he loses his breath mid startled laugh as they land on some fucking _pebbles_. Sirius fists his hands in James' robes and slams him back down when he tries to sit up, straddling his hips and trapping him there with the stones digging into his spine and Sirius glaring down at him.

His heart speeds up a notch. "Alright, Padfoot?"

Sirius narrows his eyes, fingers clenching tighter when James' hand finds its way to his thigh. "Don't be a twat."

James digs his nails in. "I'm not doing anything."

"I was just going to punch you, you know. I wasn't trying to—"

"Throw yourself at me?"

"Fuck you, Potter. In your fucking dreams."

"You realize you're in my lap right now? I mean you're rubbing up against my cock at literally this exact second..."

Sirius turns his head away, absurdly haughty given the circumstances.

"Do you want me _stop?_ "

"Fuck no—"

"Then shut your stupid mouth."

"Okay," says James. "Can do. One quick thing, though - can we move this somewhere else? I'm lying on a lot of rocks, you see, and I sort of feel like Greyback is staring at me..."

"Fucking hell," Sirius mutters, scrambling to get off him. "D'you know what, just forget about it."

"No, but—"

"You sort out the fire," says Sirius. "I'll find us something to sacrifice."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Long story short, the ritual thing just doesn't work out. It doesn't work out to such an extent that the word _ritual_ ends up officially banned from their shared vocabulary for the foreseeable future. At one point, James finds himself screaming _"I will stone you, so help me god-"_ while Sirius hurls a pebble at his head and yells, _"not if I stone you first!"_

It's kind of a messy time. Low blood sugar and all of that. In a way, James likes to think that it brings them closer together.

"So..." he says, after the dust has settled. "Sling a cloak over those branches, and give the fire one last go?"

Sirius nods, scratching at a shallow cut on his cheekbone.

"Sounds like a plan."

It's hard not to think of their old den in the Forbidden Forest, and how much simpler it was to set up. James can't believe that a pair of literal children could bring more magic to the table than two grown men just because they had the advantage of _wands,_ but he doesn't remember anything being as difficult back then as just starting the fire is tonight. He barely remembers what spells they used now - it was more like they just linked hands and _wished_ the whole thing into existence.

Maybe that's the problem; Sirius won't stay close enough for long enough to let them get anything done. He's acting like they've never even fucked before, brittle and wary and quick to violence.

James tries not to take it too personally.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"C'mere," he says, when they're finally done. "Sit down with me."

Sirius hesitates, halfway through feeding a branch to the fire. The flames sway towards him, warm orange light playing softly over his tight, tired face. It seems to love him - all kinds of light seems to love him. James has always thought so. Jealously, sometimes.

Sometimes not so much.

"I'm alright where I am."

"Come on," James says, beckoning. "You don't want to get pneumonia."

"I'm fine. It's hot over here."

"You're shivering."

"How the fuck would you know? You're basically blind—"

"Maybe you're just that obvious."

Sirius' hand fists in the mulch of dead leaves and damp grass, and he tosses his hair back in this huffy, disinterested way, as if he hasn't been drifting closer and closer to James since they started the damned fire.

"If you say so..."

"Yeah," says James. "I do."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Sirius," he whispers, fingers skimming over burning hot skin. "Sirius-"

"What?"

"I want to fuck you."

Sirius shivers, head falling back onto James' shoulder. "So?"

"We haven't...." James fidgets with the waistband of Sirius' jeans, already half wishing that he'd kept his mouth shut. "Not since, you know..."

"You found out about the first time."

He sighs, burying his nose in Sirius' unwashed hair. "Yeah. That."

To no one's surprise, Sirius tenses in his arms, almost but not quite pulling away.

"And what? Do you really want me to say it again?"

"Sirius..."

"I'm sorry," says Sirius curtly. "Alright? I'm sorry I wiped your memory."

It doesn't help even half as much as James had thought it would, but he appreciates the gesture all the same.

"It's not that," he says. "I mean, it is, but not just..."

"What, then?"

"You didn't like it."

Sirius goes very still. "James—"

"You wanted it to stop."

"I just—"

"You wanted me to stop."

He can't believe how heavy the words feel, how difficult it is to force them out. How different the world seems just for having said that. He wishes - desperately, stupidly - that he could take it back. That sentence, and the thing itself. That fucking night. God, he'd give anything to take that fucking night back.

"I never said—" Sirius starts.

"You couldn't, could you? I had your face pressed..."

"I wouldn't have said anything," Sirius says urgently, twisting around to look at him. "James, I wouldn't have—"

It's James who pulls away this time, edging back against the tree until they're barely touching.

"That just makes it worse. You really think I want you to... what, suffer in silence? Jesus Christ."

"I could have stopped you. It's not as if... it's not how you're making it sound."

"I know exactly how it is. I was inside your _head,_ Sirius."

"I know. I know, I just—"

"Why didn't you?" James says miserably. "Stop me, I mean?"

Sirius moves closer to the fire, no longer even trying to look at him.

"Because I didn't want to stop you. Why do we have to talk about this?"

"Why do you think? I need to fucking _know."_

"Know what? We had sex, it was shit, what else is there to say? If you ask me, we were both better off for you _not_ knowing."

Anger chases some of the chilly, hollow feeling out of James' chest.

"Seriously? This again? You had no right to make me forget."

Sirius sighs, shoulders slumping as he bows his head. "I know."

Everything is quiet for a moment, except the night birds and the spitting, crackling flames. James is cold, outside as well as in, hugging his knees as he stares at the fire, trying not to wonder...

"All those other times," he says eventually. "Did you like it?"

Sirius glances back at him, seeming surprised by the question.

"What?"

"When I fucked you. Did you like it?"

Running a hand through his hair, Sirius looks away.

"You know I did."

"I don't," says James. "That's the thing. I thought I did, but..."

"It was just that one time. The rest of it was, well..."

"What?"

Sirius turns around, and moves until he's kneeling right in front of James, close enough to see quite clearly. He touches James' hand, gentle and awkward. "I liked it, alright?"

"Yeah?" says James, smiling ever so slightly. "How much?"

He's not really expecting an answer, of course. He's just trying to lighten the mood. To bring things a little bit closer to normal. He's not expecting Sirius to look into his eyes, half defiant, half embarrassed, and to say with apparent sincerity, "More than I've ever liked anything else."

 

 

* * *

 

 

James goes slowly, takes his time about it. He works Sirius open with two teasing, spit-wet fingers, sliding in deep and drawing out again until Sirius is squirming, eyes squeezed shut as he rips up handfuls of grass, hissing " _do it, James, just do it—"_

"No," says James. "Not yet."

He doesn't have to say why not. To explain that he's pretending that this is the first time, that he's going to do it properly. Like he should have done before. He's pretty sure that Sirius knows.

"James, please..."

Sirius' thighs are trembling, and there's blood on his lower lip. James crooks his fingers, rubs him harder, bending down to kiss him.

"I can't," Sirius moans against his mouth. "I can't, I'm going to, please-"

"Go right ahead," says James. "I'm not going to change _my_ plans just because you come so fucking easily."

Sirius tenses around his fingers, hips stuttering up towards him.

"Jesus..."

"Close," says James, unable to resist. "You want to try again?"

"I fucking hate you."

"Is that why you're dripping all over yourself just from having my fingers inside you?"

Flushing, Sirius turns his face away."Fuck off."

James can _feel_ how close he is, how tightly wound and desperate. He'd probably come on the spot if James were to slap him right now. Hard, backhanded—

No. No, those are the bad thoughts. Those are the thoughts he's not going to have any more. He's going to do this properly. He's going to make it right.

"James?"

He presses his fingers in deeper, and fists his free hand around Sirius' cock.

"Go on, then," he urges. "Show me how much you like it."

Sirius comes, breathless and shuddering and visibly annoyed. Whether with James or his own body, it's hard to tell — probably a bit of both. Either way, James is into it, smirking down at him to make him burn that little bit hotter.

"Good boy."

"Sweet fucking mother of _God,"_ says Sirius hoarsely. _"_ I will pay you a million galleons to stop doing sex talk, I'm not even joking..."

James kisses him. "I'm richer than you. And besides, you get off on it."

"Oh yeah? Says who?"

"Says your _cock,"_ James reminds him, squeezing for emphasis.

Sirius hisses, twitchy and oversensitive. "You're such a fucking loser."

"I'll remember that you said that."

"Yeah?" Sirius snorts.

"Yeah," says James. "When you're bent double and begging for my dick."

"You're impossible." Sirius rolls his eyes. "Just fuck me, will you? Quietly."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It occurs to James that he might have taken things a little bit _too_ slowly. By the time he's slicked up his cock and got Sirius to hook his legs over his shoulders, he feels like he might go mad with it, with patience and waiting and want.

"I missed you," he says, pushing in as deep as he can go. "Missed this. Sirius..."

"Shut up," says Sirius. "Me too."

"You feel so good right after you've come. All easy and open for me, God, it makes me want to ruin you..."

Sirius clenches up around him, tight and deliberate, heels digging into James' back. "So do it."

James rocks his hips, _slow slow slow_ , trying to stay in control. He captures Sirius' wrists and holds him down among the tree roots, hand shifting down to wrap around his forearm, covering up the mark.

" _Oh,_ " says Sirius, shivering. "That's — James —"

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when you _touch_ it."

He moves his hand. He's so fucking hard he knows he's going to come if Sirius so much as breathes the wrong way right now.

"James?"

The dark mark stares back at him, branded there indelibly, all but _daring_ him to let it put him off.

"Don't stop," says Sirius quietly. "Unless, I mean..."

It might be simpler if it _did._

"No," he says. "I don't want to stop."

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

 

 

He dreams about the city. Sky-high walls and endless grey, smog that mutes the stars. Peeling faces beaming down from billboards; neon lights reflecting on the water as it rises up towards them.

He steers his boat through the ever-narrowing streets, searching for a sign or a landmark. He knows where he's going, of course, he just doesn't know where he _is._

Sirius is fishing in the back, face shadowed underneath his hood, feet propped up on the side of the boat as he reels another body in. The way he's lying makes less sense the more James looks at him; there shouldn't be room, it shouldn't be comfortable. The boat wasn't designed for some indolent, long-limbed bastard to sprawl all over it, making a mockery of the whole concept of physical space. James can't even stretch his toes without bumping into something.

_"You could help, you know,"_ he tells Sirius.

Sirius shrugs. _"I am helping."_

The body flops heavily over the side, landing in the boat with a wet thump and merging with the others. James is getting sick of that sound. Sick of the dead things weighing the boat down and slowing their passage, nudging up against the hull and getting caught in James' oars. What's the fucking point of them, really? All they do is just get in the way.

Sirius casts his line out again.

_"Stop that."_

_"I'm helping,"_ Sirius insists. _"D'you think I'm doing this for fun?"_

_"No, but—"_

_"I'm doing this for you."_

_"But—"_

_"You're the one who wanted to come here."_

_"Yeah,"_ says James. _"I know."_

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's light when he wakes up, bright and clear and bracingly cold. He must actually have slept through the night, despite the weather and the lumpy ground and the fact that he was meant to be taking second watch. He feels surprisingly refreshed; perhaps there's something to be said for sleeping in the great outdoors. Perhaps it's just that Padfoot makes a really excellent blanket.

"Thanks," yawns Sirius. "I'll put that on my resume."

"You could've woken me, you know."

"Yeah, and listened to you whinge about how _tired_ you are for the rest of bloody eternity."

"I don't whinge," James says firmly. "I do feel better, though, I have to say."

Sirius prods at the smouldering remnants of the bonfire, pretending unconvincingly not to be pleased. "You're welcome."

James smiles and leans into him, ruffling his hair by way of proper thanks.

"Sleep is amazing, isn't it? I feel like a whole new man."

"Yeah, well, you don't smell like one. Get off me..."

"You love it," James says, kissing the side of his head. "What's for breakfast?"

Sirius looks at him sideways, raising an eyebrow.

"Croissants?" says James. "Crumpets? Eggy in a Basket?"

"Oh, you're joking."

"Well, yeah." James rolls his eyes. "Like I'd seriously expect you to spend the morning foraging for nuts and berries while I had a nice little lie in? What am I, some kind of _caveman_?"

Sirius cocks his head. "I can't tell if you're still joking."

"That hurts," says James, not entirely insincere. "I never _asked_ you to cook for me, did I?"

"I suppose not."

"Don't get all prickly, now. Look, I'll repay the favour, how about that?"

"How?" Sirius scoffs. "You can't even do proper toast."

"Maybe not to your exacting standards. No one else has any complaints. But no, I'll _buy_ you a breakfast. Once we get back to civilization, I'll take you somewhere nice."

Sirius stiffens, turns his head away. "Yeah. Right. About that..."

"We don't have to talk about it now," says James, wrapping a hand round the back of Sirius' neck and leaning in a little bit closer. "It's going to take us forever to walk back to London; we'll have plenty of time for strategizing. Let's just hang out here for a bit, see if we can rustle up something to eat."

"James..."

"Shh," says James. "Tell you what, _I'll_ go foraging. Or hunting - hey, I can bring you back a rabbit."

Sirius laughs, albeit not very happily.

"There is literally no way that you are going to catch a rabbit."

"Challenge accepted," James says brightly. "I'll catch it, you can skin it. Your horrible childhood dream come true."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rabbits are _bastards_. Devious, elusive bastards. James looks through basically the whole entire wood and he doesn't so much as _glimpse_ a single fucking one of them. Still, he doesn't let it get him down. He finds a fuck-ton of blackberries along the way, and eats about as many as he stuffs in his pockets, scratching his hands up on the brambles and fantasizing about pie. Blackberry and apple, the traditional reward for every childhood picking spree. He'll ask his mum to make him one, when he gets home. God, he can practically _smell_ it...

He finds some acorns, too, and some kind of a weird little shrew. Admittedly, the shrew's already dead, but no one needs to know that. He pulls his sleeve down over his hand so he can pick it up without actually _touching_ it, and checks for reasons not to eat it. It's not all rank and maggoty or anything, so he's pretty sure it's fine.

It's a bloody good haul, if he does say so himself, given that it's practically _November._ He strolls back to the campsite at a nice, leisurely pace, taking in what he can see of his really quite scenic surroundings and whistling the old school song to himself as he goes.

Perhaps it's this last that sets Sirius off - he's always been extremely down on whistling. James can't see what else he can possibly have done to warrant the level of hostility he's greeted with right off the fucking bat.

"Let me guess," says Sirius. "You've failed to catch a rabbit?"

"There aren't any rabbits, I'm afraid. There's some kind of a shortage. I did catch this, though. Check it out..."

"Jesus _Christ,_ what the fuck is _that?_ "

"A shrew," James says patiently. "Or maybe a vole. I don't know the difference, to be honest."

He dangles it in front of Sirius' face, smiling his most charming smile.

"You can still skin it. It's got plenty of skin. I mean, maybe not as much as a rabbit..."

Sirius turns his nose up - _literally_ turns his nose up - at this generous offering.

"I'm not eating that."

James shrugs, and tosses the shrew away. "Alright then."

"What? You're not going to argue about it?"

"Nope," says James, settling down beside him. "I've got fucking _loads_ of blackberries, look— "

Sirius narrows his eyes at him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm _trying_ to have breakfast with you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm hungry? And so are you, which is why you're being such a prat. So-"

"What, now you're making _allowances_ for me?"

James snorts, amused by the tone of dire warning.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Trust me, I don't even know _how_ to make an allowance."

He flips a blackberry up in the air and catches it neatly in his mouth.

"You want one?"

"Christ," says Sirius sourly. "You _are_ in a good mood."

"Would you rather I wasn't?"

" _Yes,"_ says Sirius. "You're unbearable when you get too happy, you must know this about yourself."

"You're not even joking, are you? Go on, then. How am I _unbearable,_ exactly? "

"You're fucking relentless!" Sirius snaps. "It's like dealing with a _child._ I mean, you literally believe that everything is going to work out for the fucking best _—_ "

"Maybe it is, though."

"Yes, for _you._ It always does _,_ doesn't it?"

"I meant for both of us."

"I know," says Sirius. "I _know_ you did. That's what drives me mad."

James puts a hand on his shoulder. "Padfoot, listen..."

"I don't want to listen! I don't want _this —"_

"You want a fight," says James. "I know."

"No, I don't."

"You obviously _do_ , Sirius."

"Don't tell me what I fucking want. What the fuck do you know?"

Tangling his fingers in Sirius' hair, James tugs hard enough to hurt.

"Settle down."

"You—"

James pulls harder. "Quiet."

The old command voice does the trick, and Sirius closes his eyes. James eases his grip, and then pulls his hair again, firm and slow and close to the scalp, forcing Sirius to tilt his head back.

"There, just relax..."

"That isn't relaxing," Sirius says hoarsely. "At all."

James smiles to himself, shifting closer. "No?"

"You smug fuck. I hate it when you do this."

"Pull your hair?" James snorts, doing it again. "No, you don't."

"Derail me," says Sirius. "I was trying to..."

James kisses his neck. "Trying to what? D'you even know?"

"I —" Sirius tenses, head jerking sideways. "Shit—"

"What?"

"Greyback."

 

 

* * *

 

James is too slow — unarmed and unprepared, still fumbling around for the stick when Greyback bursts through the last of his chains and breaks away from the prison tree. All he can do is shove Sirius out of the way and then this _weight_ is crashing into him, this fucking _monster_ is snarling in his face, mad eyed, blood-spattered, inhuman teeth tearing into his cheek, and it's just terror and pain and terror and the sound of someone screaming —

 

* * *

 

 

He lurches up out of the darkness, rigid with fear, hand flying to his face.

Sirius catches his wrist. "Don't, James. It's still healing."

"What? How—?"

It hurts to talk. His cheek feels wet, unpleasantly wet, and much too warm, as well.

"Don't," says Sirius, even softer than before, cool hand cradling the unharmed side of James' face. "Just sleep for a bit, alright?"

"Am I dying?" James feels compelled to ask. "Is it rabies?"

Sirius snorts, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"Jesus wept, it's just a scratch. As if I'd let you _die._ "

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What happened?" he asks, as soon as he wakes up again.

Sirius helps him sit up, and presses a goblet into his hands.

"Drink."

James does, too thirsty to care where it came from. Something burns on his shoulder - the skin feels hot and sore where it meets his neck. He notices an ugly, crescent shaped scar on his hand, as if Greyback tried to bite his fucking thumb off.

"Shit," he says, "I'm not a —?"

"Shouldn't think so. He was human when he did it. For a given value of..."

"Where is he?"

"Dead," says Sirius casually. "Here, this belongs to you."

James squints, not quite believing his eyes. "Is that—?"

"Yeah."

"Sirius," he says, trying to stay calm. "How long have you had my wand?"

"It arrived last night."

"Arrived? _How?_ "

"By owl," says Sirius tersely. "The way things usually arrive. Why? What are you suggesting?"

"I'm not..." James lets the lie fade out unfinished.

"Remus sent it. Using _my_ owl, by the way, so I was right all along about that. There's a note, if you want proof."

"I don't need _proof_ ," says James. "Don't get passive aggressive with me, I got my _face_ chewed off for you—"

"For _me?_ I never asked you to play the fucking hero in the first place. What even was that? If you hadn't gone and shoved me—"

"How was I to know you had a _wand?"_ James feels something stretch and pull in his cheek, and bites down on the urge to keep yelling. He asks, quieter and less rhetorically, "When were you planning to tell me?"

"I was trying to..."

"When?" James scoffs. "You can't have been trying very _hard._ I mean, how long does it take? 'Here's your wand' - two seconds, max."

Sirius' shoulders dip, hair falling into his face.

"Yes, I know. But you make it so fucking difficult."

"What's _difficult_ about it? Jesus. You could've told me as soon as I woke up this morning. Before I wasted the best part of four hours trying to catch a rabbit with my bare fucking hands."

"You said to leave it, James. You _said._ 'Let's just hang out here for a bit', remember? And I know it was selfish, alright, but I've just been miserable anyway. So, you know. It's not like I got anything out of it."

James opens his mouth and then pauses, unable to recall the last time Sirius actually _admitted_ to feeling unhappy.

"What do you mean?" he asks, softening his tone a bit.

"You know what I mean. I know that we have to go back, alright? I know you can't just stay here forever, and I know you're not going to let _me_ stay—"

"Let you?" James says, disbelievingly. "What, you'd _want_ to? By yourself? You want to stay without me?"

"Of course I don't, you stupid cunt. But if I was here, you could visit me, couldn't you? Spend the weekends camping in the woods - you might even like it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think they do conjugal visits in Azkaban."

James can't help but laugh.

"No one's sending you to _Azkaban,"_ he says. "Fucking hell, you're so dramatic. No one even _knows."_

"Oh, of course not! It's not like a Ministry informant was _standing right there._ "

"Who? _Moony?_ He's not going to tell on you, come on. And even if he did, it's not as if we can't explain..."

"For fuck's sake," Sirius mutters, "I knew you were going to be like this."

"Like what?" says James, grabbing his wrist when he tries to stand up. "Reasonable? Sane? It's just a fucking tattoo, Sirius. It's not as if you wanted it. For once in your life, you didn't actually do anything _wrong._ "

Sirius stares at him. Like he can't quite accept that anyone could be so stupid.

"You realize I've killed two people in the last two days?"

"Oh, come _on,_ you can't be counting Greyback as a _person._ You can't possibly feel guilty about that—"

"I don't feel guilty about any of it. Guilt isn't the point. The point is what it looks like, what the fucking _law_ says. And the law says I'm a Death Eater now."

James swallows bile. "Don't say it like that."

"Why not, James? That's what they're all going to say. That's what your precious Ministry says. You've read the same damn handbook I have, do you really need me to quote the part about Marked suspects—"

"You're not a _suspect,_ " James says angrily. "There must be exceptions. We'll be dealing with a person, not a bloody handbook. We can explain. I can explain. I can tell them you saved my life."

"You think that'll make any difference?"

"Of course it will," says James. "I know it will. I'll go by myself, if you want me to. I'll just say I've got this friend, explain the general situation, you know. Test the waters."

"Yeah?"

James ignores the sceptical tone. "Yeah... yeah, I can get things smoothed out at the Ministry, then pop back here to pick you up as soon as it's all sorted."

He's on his feet now, ready to go. It's obvious, really — no risk, no need for a row, and he can grab a drink along the way. They can celebrate with a proper picnic in the woods, champagne and everything, and both be back in the flat before sundown.

Sirius looks up at him, visibly trying not to hope.

"You really think it'll be that simple?"

James grins. "I know it will."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It isn't.

Simple, that is.

If he's being honest, James sort of knew that it wouldn't be. Before he ever set foot in this office, before they started to _question_ him as if he were some random member of the public who'd just wandered in and started telling tall tales. He knew long before they called in his parents, before indifferent professionalism gave way to grating reassurances that _"of course, you're not in any trouble"_ and _"you've done the right thing, James, trust me."_

He knew it was going to be difficult _._ It's not as if he's so naive — it's not as if he's _stupid._

Except maybe he is, maybe he _is,_ because for five whole minutes he truly believed that he'd pulled it off. He believed _them._ He knows all the tricks, and he fell for them anyway. It's only now, in this moment, when it might be too late, that he finally gets it.

He sees the look his escorts exchange as he gets ready to apparate. He knows they're going to grab him, follow him — they're going to use him to get to Sirius. They were _always_ going to do this, from the moment he refused to give them a location, to let them _"handle it"_ without him. It's all been a lie — the notes they took, the pretence of listening, the way they let him persuade them that he would go alone. It's all been totally pointless. Nothing he's said - nothing that he _could_ have said - means anything to them.

This was a foregone conclusion.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They grab him. Follow him. He splinches himself, trying to change direction at the last second. It's just a bit of ear, it doesn't matter now. All that matters is losing them.

The forest blinks in and out, his feet hardly touching the ground before he's stumbling into some new patch of semi-identical scenery, trees lurching up in front of him like cheap joke-shop scares, dead leaves slippery under the soles of his oversized boots. He's in the river; he's tumbling down a slope; he's tearing his sleeve on the brambles.

He's standing in the embers of their bonfire, dragging Sirius to his feet.

"James—?"

"Quick," he says. "Hold onto me. They're coming—"

 

 

* * *

 

He doesn't know where to go.

It's dangerous, not knowing. He can't be uncertain - he'll get them both killed.

Any decision is better than none—

 

* * *

 

 

"What the _fuck_ , James?"

He pushes Sirius away, looking around a bit wildly, checking they're alone.

"What was that?" Sirius demands. "Why are we in Moony's shed?"

James fixes the door with a wave of his wand, and starts on the wards. He feels sick and excited and _strange_ , unmoored, as if anything could happen. He feels like he's walking on air.

Sirius grabs his shoulder, turning him around. "James—"

"I don't know," he says, his own voice buzzing weirdly in his ears. "I thought about that chair, about sitting in that chair and watching you..."

Glancing at the (excellent) armchair in question, Sirius rolls his eyes.

"What is it with you and that _chair?"_

"It's a really good chair," says James. "I wanted to fuck you on it."

"Yeah, okay, I _know,_ but—"

James pulls him closer, focus narrowing, skin on fucking fire. His fingers hook under Sirius' waistband, anchor themselves in his hair.

"I still do," he says, adrenaline threatening to burst his heart if he doesn't _do_ something. He wants, he _needs —_

"What, _now?_ I thought there was some kind of crisis."

"Yeah, yeah, now, before they find us."

He kisses Sirius, urgent and messy, bumping their hips together as he tries to walk him backwards, nails digging hard into the small of his back.

"Who?" Sirius asks breathlessly, moving with him, kissing him back like he can't fight the habit. "James, what—?"

He can't explain. He can't slow down. If he slows down, he'll fall. He'll remember that the ground isn't there anymore. He fumbles with Sirius' belt buckle, pushes him into the chair and straddles him, hissing at the hot sharp pleasure-rush of Sirius' teeth on his throat.

"I won't let them touch you," he promises, barely aware of what he's even saying. "I'll bring down the whole fucking lot of them, Sirius, I don't care..."

Sirius shuts him up with a kiss, long fingers bracketing James' face, holding him still. "It's alright," he says, quiet and fierce. "It's alright."

"It's not," says James. "It's fucked. It's all fucked up. The whole fucking _world_ is—"

"Forget about that."

He can't. It's catching up. It's all unravelling.

"The Ministry—"

"Forget about them," Sirius insists. "Do you want to fuck me or not?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

He comes too fast, barely even inside when he feels it hit him. It's not much of an orgasm, really, a spasm of a thing, over before it's started. Still, his heart is rattling and his muscles won't settle, and his grip on Sirius' hip is definitely going to leave bruises.

"James..." Sirius shifts, trying to move. To pull away.

James holds on tighter. This is his, this is _his,_ no one can take this away. No stupid cult or evil relation or petty fucking _bureaucracy._ Who the fuck do they think they are?

"Let go a minute," Sirius says. "I can't think when you're..."

"No."

Sirius prises his fingers away. "We need to _talk_ , James. If the Ministry—"

"Fuck the Ministry. You're the one who told me to forget about them."

"Because you were spiralling," says Sirius, forcibly removing himself from James' lap and pulling up his trousers. He turns around. "I thought you'd settle down after a quick shag. But if they're after me, you have to go. It's not too late..."

"It is."

"You've not done anything, you idiot. You're unmarked. You're _you,_ for fuck's sake, of course they'll take you back."

And maybe they will, maybe they would, but James won't ever go back now. He won't work for people like that, won't let an institution so fucking unfair and sneaky and full of shit dictate to _him_ what's right and what's wrong. He _won't,_ he fucking _refuses._ He refuses it all, all their rules, all their bullshit, their _"high expectations"_ and assurances that he can still go far.

Go far? Those fuckers have no _idea._

They've not got a _clue_ how far James will go.

"O-kay," says Sirius, his tone suggesting that James might have said at least some of that out loud. "So, what, do you want to be outlaws? Go on the run? Live in the woods like Robin fucking Hood and his band of merry men?"

"Like who and his what now? No, just us."

Sirius shakes his head, not _'no'_ so much as _'I can't believe'_.

"You mean it, don't you? You'd actually..."

"Of course." James shrugs. "What else would I do?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Okay, first things first," says James. "We're going to need disguises."

"Are we?"

"Too fucking right we are. We have to grab some food, some supplies, you know. Drinks..."

"We do need drinks," Sirius concedes. "I'm not going to the woods without any drinks. Not again. And I need cigarettes - I literally might murder you if I don't get a cigarette soon."

"I told you," James says. "Didn't I say you'd get hooked on the damn things? You've got an addictive personality, I've always said."

"No, you haven't. You didn't even know what that _meant_ until I told you."

"I learned it from Lily—"

"Yeah, and you thought it was a _compliment."_

"That's beside the point," says James. "Anyway, as I was saying, we need all this stuff. I stopped off at my vault before I went to HQ, so money isn't a problem."

"Why would money be a problem? We can just nick stuff; you've still got your cloak."

"We're not _criminals,_ Sirius. Jesus Christ. We just need to nip into town and get some shopping done. Ideally while they're still out searching the woods..."

Sirius snorts. "Morons."

"I know, right?" James grins. "We'll be right in front of their noses. In and out before they even know we're there."

"Alright, yeah, I'm up for that."

"Right?" James claps him on the shoulder. "So, about our characters—"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I can't believe you made me _blond._ "

"Still?" says James, tossing some HobNobs into their trolley. "Because it's been a while now. You'd think you'd acclimatize to it."

Sirius takes the biscuits out, scowling at him. "Those are the wrong sort."

"They're the _only_ sort."

"They've got chocolate on them, it's disgusting. Let's just get Garibaldis."

James makes a face. "Grim."

"You don't have to eat them," Sirius says, grabbing about twenty packets. "You've got your baby biscuits, haven't you?"

"Jammie Dodgers are _not —"_

"I should've been the distinguished older gentleman. I'm literally older than you, for fuck's sake. _And_ I don't fill up the trolley with muggle children's party food."

James rolls his eyes. "No one's going to know who put what in the trolley, are they? You've had a terrible life, out there on the streets. No real childhood at all. It's only natural you'd get your distinguished new benefactor to buy you loads of treats."

He gets a pack of biscuits to the face in exchange for this sensible explanation.

"This is so fucking _stupid,_ " Sirius says. "Why am I a rent boy? Why is any of this happening?"

"Well, I thought I'd leave your backstory to you..."

"Why do we even need _disguises_? I doubt they've put up Wanted posters all round fucking Tescos."

"Better safe than sorry, babe."

Sirius pushes his hair back, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring. It is, like everything else he does at the moment, uncontrollably funny to James, on account of his looking so blond. Even his lashes are pale silver-gold. He looks like a furious Malfoy.

"Laugh it up while you can," he says. "When I get a new wand..."

James ruffles his ridiculous hair. "Not to worry; that's next on the list."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out that buying a new wand is rather less simple than James had been hoping. Which is to say that it's basically impossible.

"Sorry," he tells Sirius. "You can take one, though. From an enemy."

"No shortage of them, I suppose. You plan to do some fighting, then?"

"Well, yeah, weren't you?"

"Obviously."

"Great," says James. "Until then, we'll just have to share."

Sirius smirks. "Your wand does rather like me."

"I'll pretend you didn't say that," James says, generously. "Let's take stock, alright? Have we got everything we need?"

It looks like they have, and more besides. They seem to have filled up half the shed with snacks and spare clothes and all sorts of stuff that might come in handy. The booze run was a roaring success, and they've even found the perfect tent — Sirius goes so far as to claim that it's bigger inside than the flat.

James isn't sure about that, but it's certainly bigger than Remus' shed, and will make for a much more suitable hideout. They're going to have to stay on the move, now that they're on the run. Home can't be a building anymore; the Ministry will most likely requisition the flat, and someone else will grow old in James' perfect house in the country. Someone else's kids will grow up there. They might take out the weird little bidet, or paint the walls magnolia. James won't be there to stop them. James won't have any kids, in all probability, never mind a bloody house to keep them in. He's going to live in a tent, in the woods, with a man who couldn't realistically be relied on to raise a fucking pot plant.

Still, there are upsides. Besides the fact that he happens to love the aforementioned man basically to death, despite all the shit that they've done to one another. That's just obvious, that's why he's _here,_ but the more he plans out their next moves, the more pros he can think of and the less those (once massive) cons seem to matter.

He's going to run wild every day, to do what he wants whenever he wants it. Him and Sirius, they're going to be free like none of those squares hemmed in by cities and civilized norms can imagine. They're going to invent a whole new way of _being_. They're going to get into trouble, and have grand adventures, and answer to no one except one another. They're going to live by their own fucking rules. They're going to be kings of the forest.

"We forgot bog-roll," Sirius says. "I told you to get it."

"We don't need bog-roll."

"We very much _do_. I'm not wiping my arse with a leaf."

"I'll just transfigure some," says James impatiently. "Honestly, I was trying to have a moment..."

"What, with yourself?"

"With all of this..." James gestures around. "With everything."

"You having second thoughts?"

"Do I ever have second thoughts?" says James. "Of course I'm not. I'm actually glad..."

"What, seriously?"

"Yeah, I mean, the whole training thing was getting really old. And the urban lifestyle, you know..."

"The _urban lifestyle?_ " Sirius scoffs.

"You know what I mean."

Sirius just laughs at him, perched gracefully on the arm of his chair until James yanks him down into his lap.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

"In a minute," James says. "I'm having a thought. D'you know what we need?"

"Toilet paper, triple-ply. And maybe a television..."

"Don't talk about bog-roll when you're trying to get me hard. Word to the wise."

"Who says I'm—?"

"Sirius," he says flatly, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah, alright." Sirius scowls, but he doesn't take his hand off James' crotch. "You _are_ hard, anyway."

"Yeah, I get off on being annoyed. Lucky for you, eh?"

Sirius rolls his eyes. "What do we need, then? Go on."

"Hm?" James squirms, distracted. "Oh, yeah, that. We need a name."

"We've got names. Two of them, in fact. Three each, if you want to get pedantic."

"No, you twat, for _this._ For what we're going to do. We need something for the people to call us, the - ah - the press and all that. Like a signature we can leave behind, so everyone knows it was us."

"Knows _what_ was us?"

"All the brilliant stuff we're going to do. Our daring deeds, etcetera. Hey, do you fancy sucking me off?"

"Not if you ask me like that," says Sirius. "What sort of a name were you thinking of?"

James wraps a hand around his throat, squeezing almost lazily.

"Get down on your fucking knees, Sirius."

"Why- why should I?"

"Because I'm going to fuck your mouth until you cry, and then I'm going to come on your face. And you're going to love it, so—"

Sirius is already obeying, slipping his hold with barely hidden eagerness and dropping to the floor. James smiles, more just happy than properly smug, and leans down to stroke his fringe back.

"Good, that's better. Now, about that name..."

"I don't care," says Sirius.

"Well, I do. I think we should be an Order, you know, like... oh, _fuck."_

Sirius' hot, distracting mouth pulls away from him. "Like a cult?"

"No, _not_ like a cult. Like crusading knights. Who the fuck said you could stop?"

"Sorry," says Sirius, quiet and quick and presumably involuntary, giving the way he's frowning. "I mean - that's stupid, though. An _Order?"_

"Don't call me stupid when you're sucking my cock. It's really rude. And yeah, we'll be _the_ Order. The main Order in town. The Order of the..."

"Veto _'stag'_."

"I wasn't going to _say_ Stag," James lies. "Who gave _you_ a veto?"

"Veto _stagdog,_ too _._ "

James snorts. "Now who's being stupid?"

"Order of the what, then?"

"I don't fucking know," says James. "We'll come back to it, alright? We'll deal with all that later."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter, baby! 
> 
> (okay so it's actually the penultimate chapter bc there's gonna be an epilogue, but still!!!)
> 
> cw: violence, d/s vibes, the usual


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, i failed to write anything for ages and then i accidentally wrote two (2) epilogues, included here for your perusal. if you want like a Normal Epilogue, you can just read the first one (you're welcome) and ignore the 7k sirius pov trash which accounts for (almost) all of the warnings (which are in the end notes).
> 
> thanks to everyone who's ever commented, especially and always to real life angel [lipgallagher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/pseuds/lipgallagher) ♥♥♥

 

_**(epilogue)** _

 

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a trick..."

James gestures with his wand, and the death eaters rise smoothly upwards, hanging by their ankles high above Trafalgar Square. Muggles point and gasp, and there's a smattering of applause, a few shouts of laughter as black robes flop down over furious, evil faces, exposing their evil death eater pants to the world.

"We're not magicians," Sirius chips in, poised on the edge of the fountain.

"No," says James. "This is really happening."

"And it's time you all woke up, because..."

James spreads his arms dramatically, grinning when he hears the fireworks going off behind him. "Wizards walk among you!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

**'CHILDISH STUNTS' THREATEN STATUTE OF SECRECY**

_Muggles were left gobsmacked this week after a series of shockingly public magical incidents in and around the Greater London area. Officially labelled "stupid pranks" by the Ministry of Magic, these incidents have nonetheless exposed the Wizarding community to what one expert described as "a threat to our very existence"._

_The latest incident on Westminster Bridge was witnessed by "literally hundreds" of muggles, and led to the apprehension of three known Death Eaters —_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Ha! See? Didn't I tell you?"

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"I knew it, I knew they couldn't hush it up for long."

"They're not exactly giving us credit, though, are they? Where does it say that _we_ caught the Death Eaters?"

"I don't know, I've not finished reading it, have I? Give it back here—"

"Oh, wait, it _does_ mention us."

"You see?" says James. "Where? Let me see."

Sirius moves the paper out of his reach, clearing his throat before reading aloud, "The Ministry will neither confirm nor deny reports that disgraced ex-Auror Sirius Black, and his unknown accomplice—"

"His _what_ now _?_ Excuse me? _"_

"Unknown Accomplice."

"Fuck you, too," says James. "Jesus Christ, this is _unbelievable—"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"It'll be your parents' doing," Sirius says later. "Keeping the family name out of the paper..."

"What, you think they're ashamed of me?"

"Probably, yeah."

James snorts, skimming a pebble across the surface of the lake.

"That's cold, Padfoot."

"Is it?" Sirius shrugs, retaliating in kind when James elbows him. He makes a smooth, flat pebble dance between his fingers before he sends it skipping halfway across the lake. "Seventy two," he says. "New record."

"Nice," admits James. "Alright, game on."

He searches around for a real world-class pebble, ignoring the first light touch of rain on the back of his neck. It'll piss it down, soon enough; the heavy Welsh sky is never more than a minute away from releasing an absolute downpour. Relatively speaking, this counts as good weather, and James intends to make the most of it.

His stone skims twice, then sinks. Sirius scoffs, "Game on."

"Shut up," says James, flopping down onto his back. He stares up at the slate coloured clouds, tugging lazily at Sirius' t-shirt until he gets him to lie down as well.

A raindrop lands on the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, sighing at the scratch of Sirius' nails over his scalp.

"I suppose they're trying to protect me," he says. "My mum and dad."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"It's nice and all, but still. I wish they wouldn't."

"Mm," says Sirius, not especially sympathetically.

"It's not as if I'm going back. And everyone knows it's me who ran off with you, anyway. I mean, who the fuck else would—"

"Be my accomplice?" Sirius flicks him on the forehead. "Probably no one."

"Damn right," says James. "D'you want to go back to the tent?"

"Not yet."

"Alright, then. C'mere—"

 

 

* * *

 

 

They fuck by the lake and the side of the road, in the wide open fields and the forest and the manky public toilets in at least three supposed "towns" that barely qualify as villages. They sneak into cold stone churches and swimming pools closed for the night, haunting so-called 'leisure centres' like a pair of horny ghosts, and groping one another in the back row of a thing called a _cinema,_ where muggles go to watch some kind of giant-size television. They fuck under bright country stars and dimmed yellow lights, in the gloom of London alleys hidden just around the corner from the scene of their latest triumph. One eye on the chaos they've caused, Sirius' pulse spiking in the trap of his fingers when they hear the Aurors coming, and they disappear under their would-be-captors' eyes, gone in the blink of an eyelid —

They do other things as well. They race, fight, wreck the local gift shop, build elaborate obstacle courses that span the length of forests, and invent new rules for favourite old games. They disguise themselves as French dukes, priests, Italian gangsters, and run wild in their animal forms every other night.

James has never spent so much time as a stag before, and there's actually a lot to be said for the ungulate lifestyle. Even without the excitement of keeping a werewolf in check, he can spend hours upon hours just dicking around and eating grass and never feel the itch of boredom or annoyance or the urge to murder anyone. Deer can get drunk on basically nothing, as well. And as an added bonus, anything disruptive or ill-advised a deer might do while drunk is not only excusable, but automatically charming to anyone and everyone, up to and including Sirius.

One time, Sirius has to help him out of a minor jam involving antlers and a pub sign and some barmy old man's umbrella, and once it's all sorted, Sirius walks back home with him in human form, keeping pace on two long legs, and tells him he loves him in so many words.

"It's funny," Sirius says, after. "It doesn't change anything, does it? I used to feel like the world would end. Like you'd have won, and that would be that. Like even if you always knew, as long as I didn't _admit_ it then... I don't know. I had something. Some kind of power."

Stags can't talk, so James just listens.

"I wrote it down once. Hundreds of times. I used red ink, so you'd think it was blood. I was off my face, you know, I nearly fucking _sent_ it..."

Sirius laughs at himself, and says it again, _"I really fucking love you_ " like he's proving that he can.

He probably thinks James doesn't remember.

James lets him keep thinking that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Anywhere they set up camp becomes their own country; their woods, their villages, their little patch of countryside. And when it all gets a bit too _rural,_ they retire to the luxury of their bedroom in the tent and argue about where to go next, about what they're going to do tomorrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"D'you know what I think?" says James, one morning.

Sirius' reply is sort of muffled, what with the gag and everything, but James gets the gist of it.

"Rude," he says, stilling his hips. "We talked about this, remember? You want to fuck me, you have to be _nice._ Respectful. Look, I've made this really easy for you."

Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Your loss," says James, clenching up tight around him just to emphasize the point. "I'll just leave you to it, yeah? Keep my thoughts to myself..."

For a moment, it seems like Sirius might just shrug and call his bluff again. James shifts his weight, pressing down on Sirius' forearm and digging his nails into the dark mark. He lets his gaze drag pointedly from the new and improved leather collar up to meet Sirius' eyes, and wraps a hand around his throat.

Sirius shudders, looks away. Concedes _._

"Yeah?" says James. "You going to be good now?"

"Mph..."

James smirks, and starts to move again. He feels Sirius' cock twitch inside him and speeds it up a bit, groaning when he gets the angle just right. He's so fucking _good_ at this. If they gave out medals for riding dick, James would win gold every time. He's flexible, he's athletic, he has a _great_ sense of rhythm. Sirius should really, _really_ be a lot more grateful.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I — what was I saying?"

" _Mmph—"_

"Yeah," says James, slightly breathless. "Yeah, fuck, I think we should expand the, _uh_ , the Order—"

Sirius strains against his grip, and the way he moans sounds sort of disbelieving. Sort of _angry_ , too.

"Great," says James. "That's settled then."

"Mph!?"

"We'll start with Moony, shall we?"

Sirius spits out his gag, glares up at him, the throes of passion apparently forgotten for the moment.

"What the actual _fuck?_ "

 

 

**the end.**

 

 

**************************

 

 

_**(the other epilogue)** _

 

Padfoot is running when he hears the whistle, hurtling full pelt through the wet, dark forest, hot on the heels of his quarry. He's been trying to catch this fox for days, and he's so _close_ this time, so close to winning his new favourite game. The sound of James' summons stops him in his tracks, but he holds off on heading back for a moment; he can still smell his fox, the trail tugging at his senses as he turns away. _No, no, this way. Follow me._

James whistles again, and Padfoot barks regretfully over his shoulder, loping off towards the tent. _Tomorrow,_ he calls, although tomorrow feels like never _._ Impossibly abstract, infinitely far away. Only the human part knows what it means, and the human part is not being helpful. It doesn't want to think and it doesn't want to listen and it doesn't want to go back home. It doesn't even want to chase the fox.

How stupid can you get?

Nothing it wants makes any kind of sense tonight, so Padfoot pays it very little mind until the slope levels out and the trees drift apart and the smell of home grows louder and richer than all the rest combined. The human digs its heels in, then, reasserts control.

He stops, and listens to the voices laughing inside — James and Remus must be drunk already. He changes, and then changes back. Cocks a leg and pisses on the outside of the tent, before changing into a man again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius cracks his knuckles, shaking the dog-thoughts out of his head.

"How much do you want for it?" James is saying loudly. "Hey, I'll trade you Si—"

He steps inside, and James cuts off, beaming at him like he's made of solid fucking gold.

"Speak of the devil! Come and sit down, we were just talking about—"

"Yeah, I heard," says Sirius, unimpressed. He grabs a beer and leans against James' armchair, lighting up a cigarette. "Trade me for what, anyway? I mean, what does he _own?"_

In the chair opposite, Remus smiles that thin, testy smile, raising a hand in sarcastic greeting. "Hello, Sirius. Nice to see you, too."

"Oh, fuck off—"

"Now, now, no need be like that," says James. It's not clear which one of them he's talking to. "Let's all have a drink, eh? We've got a lot to talk about..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius wishes he'd stayed as a dog. He's bored as all shit, and James is taking forever to get to the point, bludgeoning Remus with flattery and fond reminiscence and then starting in on the Order's fucking _"core philosophy",_ as if they even _have_ one. All it's accomplishing, as far as Sirius can tell, is to make them sound even more like a dodgy two-man cult than their stupid name suggests. Still, it's James' funeral - Sirius is damned if he's going to put himself to the trouble of trying to explain _anything_ to Remus fucking Lupin. He interjects when absolutely necessary, shutting down James' attempt to say the whole horrible name with a firm, _"Just the Order",_ and yawning pointedly every so often. Actually saying _"I'm bored as all shit, Prongs, Jesus fucking Christ"_ just gets him a sharp little tug to the back of his collar; evidently, James is annoyed about this morning's row, and being boring just to spite him.

The collar is another good reason to have stayed in canine form. His skin feels hot and prickly, the leather pressing in too close around his throat. He can't believe he let James talk him into leaving it on for tonight. He can't believe he lets James talk him into _anything_. He can feel Remus looking at it, wondering about it, judging him from behind that neutral, attentive facade. Assuming things, imagining things — things that Remus knows _nothing_ about.

When he catches him looking, Sirius stares right back, holding his gaze until Remus does this awkward little cough and looks away.

_That's right, mate. Think what you like - you're still fucking scared of me, aren't you?_

"Anyway," says James, oblivious. "We're planning to expand our operation..."

"You want me to join you? In the, er..."

"Not in the tent," says Sirius sharply.

"No, not in the tent," James agrees. "No offence, mate."

Remus looks mildly relieved. "None taken. I'm just glad this isn't a, you know, threesome sort of..."

"In your fucking dreams, you double-decker twat. I wouldn't touch it with _his—"_

"Hey," says James, smacking him in the back of the head. "Be nice."

"I don't see why I should."

He really doesn't. He's not the one who wanted Remus here, not the one who wants to _expand._ He's fine with things the way they are. He's not the one who needs a fucking fanclub, who can't get by without other people.

James' fingers twist in his hair, tugging his head back. Right in front of fucking Remus.

" _Sirius_."

He shivers. Fuck. He's turning red.

"What?"

"You know what," James says, voice still low and intimate. "D'you really want me to say it out loud?"

Sirius swallows, moving his beer bottle to discreetly shield his crotch from prying eyes, fingers picking restlessly at the label. James tightens his grip, and Sirius' nails scrape against glass.

Remus clears his throat. Really fucking loudly.

"So, er, lads...about this Order business..."

James sounds irritated, "What?"

"It's just I'm not exactly clear," says Remus. "What is it that you actually, you know, _do?"_

"What do we do?" says James. "What do we _do?_ Can you believe this, Padfoot?"

Sirius can, but he's more than happy to gang up on Remus, especially if it takes James' mind off tormenting _him._

"No, I can't, Prongs. Honestly. What do we _do?_ "

"What a question, I mean..."

"I _know,_ " says Sirius. "Who _is_ this great gawking plonker? Who is _he_ to ask _us—"_

"What do we do?"

"What _don't_ we do, mate."

Sirius shakes his head to further illustrate his contempt for both the question and its original asker, who shoots him a profoundly longsuffering and judgemental look before turning back to James.

"Yes. Right. Point taken. Are you going to tell me, though?"

"Well," says James. "We saved the world, for one thing."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius knew this would come up eventually. That James would need to brag about it. Looked at in a certain light, it probably counts as their greatest accomplishment to date, although saved the world is a bit of a reach. John was never a threat to the _world,_ for fuck's sake.

It's funny, really, given how reluctant James was to believe that the man could pose any real threat to anyone at all.

Until they killed him, obviously.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Where shall we start?"

Sirius shrugs. "Wherever. I don't care."

"You don't want to-?"

"Nah, you go ahead."

"Okay, so," says James. "You might not remember this, Moony, but that day we were all tied up at Bellatrix' place, Sirius sort of killed a bloke..."

"Gary," Remus says. "I remember."

"Was it? Poor lad..."

James might need reminding of the name, but Sirius could've done without it. Sid told him all about bloody _Gary,_ voice hushed and eyes wary, as if the mere existence of his runaway brother was some kind of fucking state secret.

"He wanted me to help him choose a new name," Remus goes on. "He thought mine was _genius._ "

"Yeah, great," says James impatiently. "Anyway..."

"He was some kind of distant cousin of yours," Remus says to Sirius, hardly even bothering to hide the reproach. "Thought that would make up for being a squib. Bellatrix gave him to Fenrir, and—"

" _Alright,"_ says James. "We don't need his fucking life story."

"Sorry."

Sirius drops the end of his fag into an empty bottle. "No, you're not."

"Are you?" says Remus, his tone deceptively mild.

James squeezes Sirius' shoulder, passes him the whiskey. Trying to fucking _soothe_ him. "Back off, Moony."

"No," says Sirius. "No, I'm _not_ sorry. I didn't even know him. He was with the enemy, and someone had to die. You ought to be grateful I didn't choose _you."_

"He doesn't mean that—"

"Shut up, James. Stay out of it."

" _Excuse_ me?"

James' grip is bruising now, tight and angry and much less annoying. Sirius leans into it a little bit, taking a swig of firewhisky.

"Mind your own business."

"Mind my own-? This _is_ my fucking business. And _I'm_ the one who was trying to tell the story—"

"No-one cares about the story, James."

"Fuck you too, you bloody ingrate. Remus cares - don't you, Moony?"

"Er..."

"See?" says James. "Now where the fuck was I?"

Remus sighs. "Gary."

"Right, yeah, him. Anyway, he had this dad - remember that explosion? Back at Bella's?"

"Mm."

"That was him," says James. "John _,_ he called himself. Do you know what his _real_ name was?"

"Tristram something, wasn't it? Gary told me..."

James is predictably disappointed; he seems to think that everyone will find the contrast between the real and the assumed name as hilariously damning as he does. He laughed for ten solid minutes when he found out, all _"that's your Man of the People, is it?"_ and _"ooh, I'm John, I'm just a Normal Bloke, I'm into balls and beer and yelling—"_

Sirius, having been aware from the start that John was a posh embittered pureblood cast-off with a stupid name to match, has never really seen what's supposed to be so funny.

"Well, anyway," James continues, getting over it. "Poser that he was, he was still very dangerous..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He lets James tell the story, although he'd make a neater job of it himself. It would take him four or five sentences, at most, if he wanted to get fancy with it;

_Once upon a time, there was an angry squib who hated magic with all his heart. He lived in a mansion full of the stuff, a house-sized Room of Requirement that spread and distorted to accommodate his massive resentment, until all its power was focused on one simple goal; to repel or negate every spark of magic that came too close for comfort. Then one day, after losing his eldest son, he decided that wasn't enough, and came up with a plan to snuff out all the magic in England._

_And then we killed him and blew up his house._

_The End._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"So we taught ourselves how to use dynamite—"

Sirius' mind drifts. Scatters. He stares into the fire and leans against James' legs, one hand curling absently around a bony ankle. Remus has produced a quarter ounce of weed from somewhere — Sirius suspects he was hoping to keep that to himself — and they must be three or four joints in by now. It's decent stuff as well, although it helps that Remus rolls strong enough to knock out the average troll. Not as nice as Sid's endless supply used to be, but there's no point dwelling on that.

He wonders how Sid is doing now. Probably not that great. First his brother, then his dad, and his house as well, and all those illusions he held about _"my friend Jamie"_ —

He shakes his head. The weed is making him soft, sickeningly close to sentimental. It's not his fault the boy got so invested _._ Sirius tried to toughen him up, to teach him independence. He never said _'latch onto me like I'm your long-lost fucking brother',_ did he? He never said _'believe in me'_ or _'count on me'_ or _'I'm a decent person'._

Fingers pull at his hair, tugging him back into the moment. Blunt nails scratch a slow, lazy path from the base of his skull to the place his collar buckles. Sirius bites his lip.

James is still talking. It's hard to tell if he's aware of what he's doing with his hand. "And _then_ he pulled a gun - you know what a gun is, right?"

Sirius experiences a flicker of fellow-feeling towards Remus, who raises his eyes towards the heavens in a _god give me strength_ sort of way.

"Yes, James, I know what a gun is."

"Yeah, alright. Now, this is the good bit..."

"This is the bit where I got _shot,"_ Sirius objects, tilting his head back to glare more effectively.

"Shh," says James. "Don't spoil it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

In Sirius' view, taking a bullet to the shoulder is probably the least remarkable of all the things he's ever done for James F Potter. Taking a bullet might hurt like a bitch, but taking a bullet is also one of the coolest things a human being can possibly do. It's quick, it's easy - it's mostly just _reflex -_ and ten seconds later, bam, you're a hero. It's not like he even had to make a decision. Unlike most other things he's done for James, it would've taken a hell of a lot more effort _not_ to do it. He's not sure that he _could,_ and really, realistically, who would ever want to try? Everybody wants to be the bloke who takes the bullet.

The same can hardly be said of being the bloke who gets out bed at six in the morning just to go and buy James _yogurt._

To hear James tell it, you'd think that split-second lunge into harm's way was the ultimate proof of Sirius' devotion. Which is honestly just fucking absurd, considering that Sirius once tried to clean a whole entire _stack_ of dishes with his _bare fucking hands_ , for no better reason than that James seemed to want him to suffer.

Getting shot is nothing _._ In a pinch, he'd probably do it for Remus.

He let James put a _collar_ on him.

Not only that — he's done it more than once.

Even after that weird, hazy headfuck of a week - or was it two - where James treated him like literal shit on his shoe. Even after burning that first fucking collar, after swearing he was done, he still bowed his head and let James put the new one on. Nicer, more expensive, gifted in a literal gift box with a note so nakedly adoring that Sirius doesn't like to think on it, but still. A collar is a collar, in the end. Power is power; soft or hard, it makes no difference. People will take as much as you'll give them. And he's given James a _lot._

 

 

* * *

 

"Sirius?" says Remus, intruding on his daze by tossing a spliff at his face.

It hits him right on the fucking nose. He must be high, or else he's really slipping. James' fingers, combing slow and repetitive through his hair, aren't helping either way. If they were alone, Sirius would—

"Uh, Sirius?"

" _What_?"

"Nothing, sorry," Remus says, doing that _why do I bother_ thing with his face, as if Sirius is the one who's being fucking rude.

"Are you fucking kidding?"

"If you must know, I was going to ask if you were alright."

"Oh," says Sirius. "Weird. Well—"

"What are you asking _him_ for?" James says indignantly. "He's fine. Aren't you, Padfoot?"

Sirius shrugs. "Yeah?"

"See? Why would he not be? _I'm_ the one who just told you that I had to _kill_ a man. If you're going to ask if anyone's alright—"

"Of course," says Remus. "How thoughtless of me. That must have been terrible for you."

"It was fucking _weird,_ mate, I can tell you."

"That is one way of putting it."

"It changes you, you know," James says earnestly. "Taking a life like that."

"Wow. You don't say."

Remus sounds ridiculously _Welsh_ when he's being that sarcastic. Sirius wonders if he should remind him - bring him down a peg or two. Out of loyalty to James or something.

"Oh, right," says James scornfully. "Because _you've_ killed loads of people, have you?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"Come off it, no you _haven't."_

"What do you think it involves, exactly, living with a pack of _werewolves_? Following orders from the likes of Fenrir Greyback?"

"How would we know?" Sirius interjects. "It's hardly our kind of scene, is it?"

Remus stares at him. "Is that supposed to be a _joke,_ or-?"

"Don't mind him," says James, disloyally. "Honestly, mate, you should've said something. We could've talked about it. That can help, you know..."

"I'm pretty sure I've mentioned it. Several times, in fact."

James snorts. "Come on, Remus, I really think I'd _remember—"_

"You definitely wouldn't," Sirius says, annoyed about being dismissed, and increasingly bored of this whole conversation. He feels gratingly sober again, hyper aware of every irritant — the scrabble of rat-claws in the other room, the scratch of his sleeve against the Dark Mark, the sound of Remus breathing.

James knees him in the back. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"Yeah, well. Your side is full of shit."

"So what, you _do_ remember these so-called conversations about murder?"

Sirius literally can't fucking _deal_ with this level of stupidity. Not right now, not with the itch and the scratch scratch scratch and the fucking _breathing._ Who needs to breathe that quietly? No one, fucking _no one._ It's passive aggressive, is what it is.

"Of course I fucking don't," he says. "Are you fucking brain dead? You two save your cosy little chats for when I'm out of the way. _He's_ hardly said three words to me since fucking Christ knows when."

Remus looks at him strangely. "Are you...? Does that _bother_ you?"

"Bother me?" Sirius laughs. "Oh yeah, I'm heartbroken. I cry myself to sleep every night. I've dressed this old scarecrow in a soggy Oxfam jumper and enchanted him to sigh every couple of seconds, but it's just not the _same._ He's got this innate sort of charm and sophistication that you just never— "

"Yes, alright, I get the picture. I just meant—"

"I know what you meant. Don't flatter yourself, you trivial, jumped-up—"

" _Sirius_ ," James warns him, and he feels his traitor mouth snap shut.

"You see," says Remus mildly. "There are reasons why we don't talk much."

"Oh, so it's all my fault then, is it? What about my fucking letters, eh? I hardly called you any names in those."

It strikes him that he's really making it sound like he's bothered about this after all. James strokes his hair, and Sirius shakes him off, suddenly furious. Why do they always have to act like he's the mental one, the one who's emotionally fucking unstable? _James_ is emotionally fucking unstable. Remus is a walking breakdown, as well — Remus _cried_ the last time they saw him. Cried and yelled and _broke._

"Sirius, I wasn't answering _anyone's_ letters."

"So what?" he says. "What do I care?"

"It wasn't personal—"

"Who gives a shit?"

"You do," James says. "Obviously. So why don't you take a nice, deep breath and—"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a _child."_

"Don't act like one, then. Just calm down, and—"

"Fuck you. Fuck this."

He tries to stand up, but James just grabs him by the fucking collar, keeps him down there, shows him up and makes him look _stupid._

"Stay," James says. "Calm _down_ , I said. D'you need me to make it an order?"

No, it's worse than stupid — Sirius looks weak. Toothless, tamed, unthreatening. This is seventh year all over again, James showing off at his expense; _look what I can do, lads. Look what I can do to Sirius_.

His skin crawls as he feels himself flush, heat pulsing through his body, perverse and unwelcome and all the more insistent for how much he fucking _hates_ it.

Remus stands up, awkward and hasty. "I think I'll just go—"

"Don't be daft, mate," James says. "We've got business to discuss."

"I really don't think—"

"It's fine," says James, tone brooking no argument. "Sirius just needs a take a breather. Go outside for a run or something..."

"A _run?_ " says Sirius. "A fucking _run?"_

"No? Well, whatever you like, then. Have a fag or two. We'll see you in a minute."

Sirius says, through gritted teeth, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Sirius, I'm _telling_ you to—"

"And I'm telling you no."

"Really?" James says quietly, suddenly not so sure of himself. "But—"

"Really. Truly. Fuck yourself."

"Oh," says James. "Okay..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Awkward silence looms up around them.

_Good,_ thinks Sirius. _Let it be awkward._ _Why should I be the only one squirming?_

James clears his throat. "Well," he says. "I need a piss, so..."

He sounds disappointed. In Sirius, presumably.

Not that Sirius cares.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Remus hovers, indecisive, obviously trying to gear himself up to making a run for it while James is out of the room. He keeps glancing down at Sirius, his ludicrous, unseemly height more freakishly apparent than ever when looked at from this angle.

"Just sit down, for fuck's sake," Sirius tells him. "You're giving me vertigo."

Remus does, on the floor this time, gingerly stretching his legs out in Sirius' direction as if he's expecting to be kicked - or at least, kicked out - at any moment.

Sirius _could_ kick him out, of course, but James would only go and invite him back again. If not tonight, then some other night, and Sirius will never hear the end of it. James, for whatever stupid reason, really wants him to make up with Remus. James _did_ back off, as well — Sirius should probably throw him a bone. Show willing, at least.

"So..." Remus scratches at the scar on his nose. "You want to share a spliff?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

They smoke side to side, exchanging a real monster of a joint and a bottle of Ogden’s back and forth in semi-strained silence for what feels like a million years.

"Well..." says Remus, heavily.

"What?"

"Long piss he's having, there."

Sirius snorts, relaxing as he takes another drag. He's always admired Remus' ability to make any old shit sound like a full on proclamation of doom.

"He's probably just chatting up the mirror."

"We'll be here forever then."

Sirius nods, exhaling long and slow. "Until we wither and die."

"Good thing we get on so well."

"Yeah," says Sirius, laughing a bit as he passes the joint. "Good thing."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Sirius, listen..."

"I'm not going to apologize."

Remus looks up from his own scarred hands with a short, startled laugh.

"I never imagined that you would."

"Good," says Sirius. "That's alright then."

He's expecting a sigh, but Remus turns his head and smiles at him. In a tired, resigned way, but nevertheless.

"I suppose it is."

 

 

* * *

 

 

James enters the room the like a noisy sunbeam, demanding to know if they've kissed and made up and then, without waiting for an answer, brandishing the rat cage at them and announcing, _"you will not_ believe _the time I've had—"_

"Don't bring him in here," Sirius interrupts. "What have I told you?"

"Babe, I don't have any _choice._ He fucking escaped again, this is what I'm trying to tell you. He gave me the right run around — I had to go under the bed and everything. We need to keep an eye on him."

"Fuck's _sake-"_

"I know," says James. "I don't know how he does it."

"He was never this bright as a human being."

"Wait," says Remus slowly. "That's not...?"

Sirius rolls his eyes at the dramatic tone. "Wormtail, yeah. It is."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Remus looks shocked and appalled, even after they've explained the situation. Sat opposite Sirius at the round kitchen table where James insisted on putting the cage, he keeps pursing his lips and looking at Wormtail and muttering _"jesus"_ under his breath like he thinks that they can't _hear_ him.

"Jesus _what?"_ snaps Sirius.

"Honestly?" says Remus. "Even for you two, this is fucked up."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" says James. "He was _spying_ on us..."

"Yes, you've said. But still—"

"He admitted it himself," says James, defensively. "We caught him scurrying around after everything exploded..."

Sirius can't see the point in going over all the details. It's not like they need to justify themselves — they could've done much worse.

Personally, he'd have killed Wormtail just for that story in the _Prophet._ Never mind the part where the sneaky lickspittle cunt reported on James to the actual _enemy._ If Sirius had realized sooner, if it had ever occurred to him that Peter, of all people, could have any real _effect_ on his actual life, then Rita Skeeter's "trusted source" would have found himself in a rat-sized coffin long before he even got the chance to turn on fucking _James._

"It's better than he deserves," he says. "After everything we did for him. You, especially..."

James shakes his head. "I tried to look out for him. I went out of my _way—"_

"I know, mate. I know. You still do, don't you? I mean, it's not as if you _starve_ the ungrateful piece of shit. Look at him, he's fatter than ever."

"He really is," says James, brightening up. "He doesn't use his wheel enough."

"I'm sorry, but neither of you thinks this is...?"

"What?"

Remus pauses, gestures ineloquently. " _Odd?_ "

Sirius looks at James, who looks right back at him, shrugging at the same time he does.

"Right," says Remus, sighing. "Okay then."

James claps his hands together loudly. "Back to business..."

"Right."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Remus agrees, in the end, that if he's going to be a spy he might as well spy for his actual mates who actually give a shit about him. Unlike the fucking Ministry, as Sirius reminds him.

"They've used us both, you know. You and me. Used us and fucking disavowed us, even while we dirtied our hands for them. You're not the only one who’s been thrown to the wolves."

Remus seems to find that less persuasive than Sirius would've thought, but he does concede that he's better off passing the most useful stuff he learns to the Order, giving the Ministry just enough scraps to keep them off his back until, as James would have it, _"we finish them too"_.

And then, at last, he _leaves._

Sirius is glad enough and drunk enough to let their goodbye hug stretch on a bit. Remus feels even taller than he looks. Stronger, too.

"Hang on in there, mate."

Remus sort of laughs. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Get a fucking room," says James, loud and aggressively jovial.

Sirius rolls his eyes.

There's just no pleasing some people.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The tent feels bigger now they're alone. When James moves back to the fireside, the distance between them seems suddenly massive, and Sirius wants to _run._ Towards or away, he's not sure, but he makes himself stand still. It's fine — he's fine. He was fine just a moment ago. What does he care if he's fucked it all up? What's it to him if James is disappointed? James was being a fucking cunt. James sets himself _up_ to be fucking disappointed.

He strolls over, hands in his pockets. "I suppose you want to talk."

He knows how this is going to play out. It hasn't happened for a while, but Sirius still knows the drill, just like he knew he'd provoke this reaction eventually.

James is going to work himself up, start small and escalate from there. Most likely, he'll have a go about the hug, move swiftly on to a more generalized bollocking, and then finally arrive at the part where Sirius said _"no"_ to him while wearing the damn collar.

"You tired?" is all James actually says, slouching down onto the sofa as he takes a swig of whisky.

Sirius shrugs, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I'm fucking knackered," James says. "Forgot how much work it is explaining things to other people."

Unsure where to sit, Sirius stays on his feet, leaning on the side of an armchair and lighting up a smoke so it's clear he's not dithering.

"Tell me about it."

"Good to see him, though. Poor old Moony..."

"If you say so."

James smiles for no good reason. He looks rumpled and lazy and indecently inviting, all rolled up sleeves and ridiculous hair, shirt unbuttoned almost halfway. "Hey," he says softly, when the silence stretches tight.

This has got to be a trap.

"What?" says Sirius.

He just hopes it ends in violence.

"You going to stand over there all night?"

_Where do you want me,_ Sirius almost says.

Would say, if things were different.

He shrugs instead, lighting up another fag. "I might do. What's it to you?"

His neck itches, like the collar's rebuking him. Like it wants him to kneel, to kiss James' knuckles and reaffirm his fealty.

He shakes his head, clears his thoughts.

_Not without a fucking fight._

 

 

* * *

 

 

James is being impossible. Unbearable. Just _sitting_ there, drinking and chatting and drumming his fingers along to some crap on the radio, refusing to even _acknowledge_ the fact that Sirius broke the rules.

It's like he doesn't even care.

Restlessness worms its way in as Sirius stands there, waiting for a fight that won't seem to happen. That familiar, hateful _pressure_ keeps building and building, tension seething under his skin like he's playing host to a fucking ant colony.

Times like these, he really misses the club. John might have been a cock but the fights were fucking brilliant. Everything was simple there, everything made sense. All his instincts in clear, perfect harmony — until James showed up, of course. It was never the same after that.

Nothing ever is.

"D'you want to take that off?" James asks, out of nowhere.

Sirius moves to touch his collar and realizes he's already doing it. He's thrown by the offer, not sure how to take it. It must be meant as a reproach, but James sounds casual, sincere, like he doesn't mind one way or the other. Like they can just go back to normal.

"Why?" says Sirius.

"You know..."

"What, I'm not fucking good enough? Because I wouldn't play along when you tried to make a fool of me—"

"I wasn't," says James, drinking deeply. "And no, that's not what I'm saying. That was... well, it was my mistake, alright? I never should've asked you to wear it today."

Sirius blinks. "You what?"

"You heard me."

"What are you saying?"

"You know," says James. "It was too much. I just... "

Only James could make him feel a coward for resisting.

"What?" says Sirius, fists clenched by his side. "Like I just couldn't handle it? That's what you think? I was handling it _fine."_

James snorts. "Of course you were."

"I fucking was. If you hadn't gone and made such a _thing_ of it—"

"I was trying to help you!"

"Like hell," says Sirius. "You were flaunting it. One second it's _stay,_ the next it's fucking _go._ Tugging on the damn thing every five minutes, because god forbid anyone _forget..."_

"I was trying to—"

"You were trying to humiliate me."

To his considerable surprise, James doesn't leap to deny it. It just sort of hangs there, heavy in the silence, while James downs the last of the whisky and then just looks at the fire, rolling the bottle absent-mindedly between his hands. Sirius' brain, hell bent as ever on ruining his life, latches onto the movement and treats him to a brief, intense reminder of those hands around his throat. That spike of need and adrenaline, the heat and panic and the rush of having James so fucking _focused..._

James looks up at him.

"I don't think I was, you know. But, yeah. Embarrass, maybe."

"What's the fucking difference?"

"You know," says James. "It's not as nasty, is it? I mean, it's not like I made you blow me in public or... you know. Whatever else. It's not like I meant any harm by it."

Sirius laughs, because screaming would be childish.

"What _did_ you mean, then? What did you think was going to happen?"

"I thought you'd get off on it."

He never should've let James into his head. What the fuck is he supposed to say now?

_Those were just nightmares, wet dreams, memories gone wrong?_

_I do, but I don't want to?_

_I don't want to be like this, and I blame you, I blame you, it's all your fault—_

"I do," James confesses. As if _that's_ a revelation. "I get off on people knowing. What I am to you, what I can do..."

"Yeah, I fucking know that."

James _smiles_ at him again, crooked and rueful and not half as fucking charming as he thinks. "I suppose you do."

"Stop that," Sirius says sharply, scratching the back of his neck.

"Did you also know that you're really fucking hot when you're embarrassed?"

James says it so easily, light and conversational, and Sirius hates him so _much_ sometimes.

"That's right, it's all fun and games—"

"Don't be like that, I'm just trying to explain."

"I don't want a fucking explanation. I just want you to have a good shout and get it over with so that I can go to bed."

"Why would I shout?" James has the gall to ask, standing up and moving towards him.

Sirius' heart speeds up with every step. James touches his face, and the collar seems to tighten. The word _sorry_ sticks in his throat, he can hardly swallow for the urge to say it, like the fact that he's done nothing wrong is just that meaningless _._ James' hand is warm, his fingers firm against Sirius' jaw, and he says his name in that way that makes Sirius feel naked.

"You can't think I'm actually pissed off with you?"

As if he'd _never_ — as if he's so _sweet._ As if he's as soft as his stupid hazel eyes, as the line of his mouth is right now.

As if Sirius would _want_ him to be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Another bottle shatters, and still James doesn't move to stop him.

"Are you just going to fucking stand there?" Sirius snarls. "Are you just going to let me smash it all up?"

James shrugs. "If it makes you feel better. As long as you stick to the empty ones..."

Sirius stalks across the room and grabs the freshly opened bottle of Ogden's right out of James' hand. He meets James' startled gaze head on, raising his arm to broadcast his intent—

James' fingers close around his wrist. "Stop it."

His body reacts like it always has done, every atom jumping to attention, heart dropping hard like he's stepped off a cliff. James wants to hit him, he can see it in his eyes.

He drops the bottle. It doesn't even break. It spills, though, staining the rich red carpet between them, and James tightens his grip.

"For fuck's _sake_ , Sirius."

The bones in his wrist hurt, just enough to tease. He's had dreams where James breaks them. James knows that, James has seen — James lets him go, like he's reading his mind.

"What am I going to do with you?"

Sirius laughs, disgusted with everything. "Do what you like," he says. "Oh no, wait, you don't have the balls..."

James shoves him, hard, eyes dark and searingly angry.

"Don't fucking _test_ me."

"Why the fuck not?" Sirius demands, stepping right back into punching range. "I thought we were living out our _fantasies_."

"Jesus fucking _Christ,_ I _said_ I was sorry about earlier."

"You never—"

"Well, I am. Alright? I'm sorry. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Sirius just stares, just — this is _unbelievable._ James puts a hand on his shoulder, pulls him into a hug. Whispers _sorry_ into his hair, close and warm and suffocating.

Sirius feels like he's standing in quicksand.

"Love you," James says, quiet and easy, empty and weightless, and everything is spiralling, everything is hollow—

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius finds himself shouting, hears himself like he's on tv, some fucking awful melodrama;

"Why don't you _prove_ it then? Why don't you stop pretending that you're too fucking good to want the same thing I do?"

James looks shocked, like he's really that stupid. "Sirius..."

"If you _love_ me so much, why won't you fucking hit me?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

James kisses him first, and that's what really throws him.

James kisses him like he's _everything,_ like he's the only thing that matters in the world, and then he hauls him back by his hair and slaps him in the face.

"Is this what you want, then?"

Sirius is caught off guard, reeling from the shock of being real again. Hyper real, now, hyper aware, and his cheek is burning and his body's on fire—

James slaps him again. "Is it?"

"Harder," he says, forcing his voice not to crack. "If you want me to feel it."

James gives him this look, like everything Sirius has ever tried to hide is written all over his skin.

"I think you're feeling it already."

"Fuck y—" his curse cuts off on a ragged breath as James' hand connects again.

"Stop me if I'm wrong," James says smugly. "If this isn't what you need..."

It isn't, of course, of _course_ it isn't, but Sirius can't say so just at the moment. He's speechless, mortified, hard just from _that,_ one hand pressed to the redness in his cheek as James crowds him back against the sofa. He wanted to be hit like an equal, not backhanded like some stupid mouthy bitch. Not pressed down into the cushions, James' knee jammed up between his thighs, held down and _slapped_ like a fucking whore while he moans and squirms and twitches against James' leg at every stinging blow.

"Jesus Christ, you're pretty," James says. "All trembling and outraged, like some spoiled little prince who's never been hit before."

" _Fuck_ you, I'm not _— ah—"_

"Yeah, you are. Look at you. Practically gagging for it, aren't you, Sirius? I should have you turn over, do the same to your arse. Bet you'd find _that_ a bit embarrassing..."

Sirius shudders, hips bucking involuntarily, hating the sound he makes when James' leg shifts against his crotch. He wants to say that having sex with James is embarrassing enough as it is. That James is an innately embarrassing person who just lacks the common sense to be embarrassed by himself.

He opens his mouth, but then James slaps him in the face again, and all that comes out is this needy, broken noise, like _"please."_

"Yeah?" says James, fingers stroking lightly over sore, flushed skin, then trailing down Sirius' throat to hook themselves under his collar.

Jesus _Christ,_ he's actually serious — James is seriously fucking _asking._

"I've thought about it, you know," James whispers. "How furious you'd be if I tried it, just bent you over and gave you a good proper spanking, like you deserve—"

"Oh my _god,_ don't fucking _say_ it," Sirius says, traumatized into finding his tongue. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Who fucking _talks_ like that?"

James laughs, insufferably pleased with himself. "You're so easy."

"It's fucking absurd, it's— _oh,_ fuck. _"_

James slaps him, grins, "Embarrassing?"

"I fucking _hate_ you, seriously—"

"Love you, too, babe," James replies, with a soft, gloating kiss to Sirius' forehead. "Now, turn over."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sirius is _not_ going to cry.

It's bad enough that he's letting this happen. That he let this make him come, gasping _"sorry, please, I'm sorry"_ into the velvet sofa cushion and spilling his load all over James' trousers. It's bad enough that James didn't stop, just changed their position and shoved his slicked up cock into Sirius' arse for the five fucking seconds it took to make himself come, and then started up all over again.

It's bad enough that Sirius is hard again already.

"I know you want to," James says. "Know it hurts. Know you feel ashamed..."

It does hurt, hot and aching, and the pain just builds and builds - slowly, irresistibly, unlike anything he's felt before. Almost overwhelming but never quite _enough,_ and the merciless rhythm of James' hand against burning, oversensitive skin won't let him forget for even a second that all of this is fucking real. He's really fucking doing this. Loving this, as much as he hates it. And James knows — James will never look at him the same, will never let him live this down, will tease him about it in front of other people. God, what a laugh they'll all have. What a fucking _joke._ Sirius Black gets off on being punished, fucking _disciplined,_ humiliated — fuck. Fuck. Just thinking the word makes it worse, and he's struggling, panicking, so fucking _desperate,_ and James just holds him down and hits him again.

"Too much, Padfoot?"

It's teasing, _goading,_ not at all worried. Like James knows he can take this, knows he can handle it.

Sirius shakes his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I love you so much," James says, and Sirius can feel how much he means it, this time, he can feel it under his skin.

He screws his eyes shut tighter, swallows thickly. "Don't."

James smacks him.

"So good, Sirius. The fucking _best._ My favourite person."

He can't stop _shaking._ "Please—"

"So brave," says James, slapping him harder. "I know you're scared..."

And that's the worst thing, the thing that's even more pathetic than getting off on all this shit. He's fucking _scared,_ and scared of _what?_ As if he can't survive a bit of _embarrassment?_ As if he'll stop existing if he lets himself stop fighting it?

"Don't have to be," James says quietly, hand lingering on Sirius' arse, stroking almost gently over the places where he's sorest. "I mean, honestly, the things we've done together... how much worse can it really get?"

It's true — he's let James get away with much more than this, and there's no real reason why crying now should be any more humiliating than in any other moment of weakness. Just because James is openly and unrepentantly _trying_ to reduce him to tears, just because the whole situation is so fucking _ridiculous,_ so wretchedly absurd.

"You're such a dick," he says, and laughs—

And then he's fucking _sobbing._

"I know," says James, all but throwing him onto his back. "I know I am."

James straddles his chest, wrapping a hand around his own straining cock and staring down at Sirius like he's a world he plans on eating whole; so sure of his own power that he might as well be the godlike superbeing he so clearly thinks he is. This glowing, radiant sadist, ruthless and greedy and not at all sorry that Sirius is falling apart.

"You know what tipped me off?" James says hoarsely. "It's the part where I really get off on making my best friend _cry."_

 

 

* * *

 

They're in the bath when Sirius gives in to the nagging urge to ask, to secure some kind of promise. "You won't tell anyone?"

James rolls his eyes, and flicks a bit of water at him.

"Who would I tell, you idiot?"

Scowling at his now-damp cigarette, Sirius is about to start listing names, but James cuts him off; "Of course I won't."

"No dropping hints," says Sirius. "No funny little jokes."

"I wouldn't," James says. "You know me; I want everyone to think I'm _nice_."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cn: semi-negotiated bdsm, slapping, spanking, embarrassment/humiliation, (still) unhealthy relationships, unspecified mental illness, and like... idk... amoral conduct??


End file.
